


I'm Only Sleeping

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crazy exes, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Modern Thedas, Mostly Fluff, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-11-07 06:58:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11053719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: Alistair calls, and Zevran answers. The problem is, it wasn't supposed to be Zevran on the other end of the phone.ETA: now with smut! So much smut. Oh, and some plot, too.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rosy_Manatee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosy_Manatee/gifts).



> When I wake up early in the morning  
> Lift my head, I'm still yawning  
> When I'm in the middle of a dream  
> Stay in bed, float up stream (Float up stream)  
> Please, don't wake me, no, don't shake me  
> Leave me where I am, I'm only sleeping
> 
> John Lennon and Paul McCartney, "I'm Only Sleeping"

_Fuck you._

It's not the first time someone's texted that to Zevran. Actually, he's been told to fuck off by a lot of people over the years. Sometimes they get creative, and sometimes they stick with short-and-sweet, but "fuck you" are words he's definitely heard before.

So he's seen them before, and they're not really all that shocking. What is startling, however, is that this time, he has no idea who's texting him.

He holds the phone above his face with one hand and rubs at his eyes with the other, hoping the words might magically become something else if he squints hard enough. No luck. His screen still says, _Fuck you_ , and he still doesn't recognize the number. If he wasn't half asleep, maybe he'd be able to figure out the mystery, but his brain just won't come online no matter how much he kicks it. For fuck's sake, it's five o'clock in the morning, and he's only been asleep for three hours, after four days with almost no sleep at all.

His fingers feel thick and clumsy as he types out his response one careful letter at a time: _What?_

The answer comes back immediately: _Fuck_

And while Zevran is still blinking, a second text follows: _You_

Right.

By force of will, he heaves himself upright to sit cross-legged on the bed and gives his brain another hard kick. If he was on a job, he wouldn't be this slow. That he's in the relative safety of his own apartment is no excuse for being this groggy. His instructors would have things to say if they could see him now. Things to say, and a few unpleasant punishments to deal out, too.

That reminder at least brings his brain into something approaching a functional state, and it dawns on him what's probably happening. He's had this number for maybe a month, and there were a handful of weird messages the first week or so. Nothing since then, but...

His fingers still don't feel right, but he manages to type out, _Wrong number._

Again, the answer comes back fast: _Don't pull that shit on me again._

Zevran could just block the number and go back to sleep, but he doesn't want to leave this person hanging, either. One more attempt, maybe?

While he's deciding, another message appears: _Why_

It's followed by a photo Zevran can't immediately make out: grainy and blurry, probably taken a few seconds ago with only the shitty flash on the phone to illuminate everything. Curiosity gets the better of him and he taps the picture to enlarge it. That doesn't help, and he turns his phone and his head sideways in alternating directions until his tired brain figures it out and his eyes go wide.

The room in the picture was probably a bedroom once, but Zevran isn't prepared to bet real money on that. Dismembered furniture is scattered everywhere: wood splintered, plastic broken, metal bent. At the far edge of the picture is something that might have been a bed or might have been a sofa, springs and stuffing popping free of the slashes in the covering fabric.

Something dark is splashed on the walls and the floor and the shattered remains of the furniture. Zevran assumes it's paint, although it looks disturbingly like blood in the photo. He can only hope this person would have called the police if it was actual blood, rather than cursing at someone via text message.

He's still admiring the whole thing with a mixture of awe and amusement and horror when another text arrives: _What the fuck is wrong with you???_

That kills the humor, because whoever's on the other end of this conversation, they did something truly appalling to deserve this. And if they didn't deserve it, then Zevran feels for them. Deeply.

He could send another text, but somehow, he doesn't think that's going to help. Instead, he taps the number at the top of the screen and calls instead.

There's not even a single ring before the line opens, and a male voice almost shouts in his ear, "Why in Andraste's name do you think I want to talk to you?"

 _Because you answered?_ Zevran thinks, amused. He can hear tears under the anger, though, so he just says, "My apologies, but you truly do have the wrong number."

On the other end, all Zevran can hear is harsh, heavy breathing. It would be sexy, if it wasn't broken by what can only be a swallowed sob.

A little of his sympathy fades when the voice demands, "Why do you do this shit?" There's a harsh breath and an audible gulp, and when the man speaks again, his tone is almost reasonable. "Can you just pretend to be a grown-up for five minutes?"

"My friend," Zevran starts, only to be interrupted.

"I'm not your fucking friend. Not anymore!"

Zevran's sympathy is nearly gone, as is his patience. "As you like," he says, excessively polite. "You are not my friend, but neither am I your enemy, and unless someone has crept in while I _slept_ ," he puts deliberate emphasis on that word, because it's _five o'clock in the fucking morning_ , "there is no one here but myself, and I am not the person you think I am."

The heavy breathing on the other end of the phone doesn't stop. It's impressive, how much panting sounds like, "I don't believe you."

Now thoroughly annoyed, Zevran hangs up, throws himself out of bed, stomps into the bathroom, flips on the light with excessive force, takes a selfie in the mirror, and texts it to the asshole with a few sharp jabs of his finger. There.

Breathing a little hard himself, he takes a moment to gather his wits and his sense of humor. The calmer he gets, the sillier he feels. He could have just hung up and blocked the number. He did his duty as a decent person and made an effort to correct the misunderstanding. Anything after that was just a stubborn need to prove that he's right.

Something else his teachers would have had words about, but it's late and he's tired. Or he will be once the adrenaline fades.

Chagrinned, he calls his mystery man back, readying an apology for being an asshole. The phone rings four times, and Zevran is about to hang up when the quality of the silence on the other end changes.

No one says anything, though, so Zevran says, "As you can see, I am not whoever you're looking for."

There's a choked gurgling noise, then the man blurts out, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, it's just, he does, he did...never mind, it doesn't matter, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have done that, I should have believed you, you don't sound anything like him, but he...he would-" There's the sound of someone swallowing hard, then a whispered, "I'm so sorry."

Guilt is twisting unpleasantly in Zevran's chest, even though very little of this is his fault. He doesn't usually have much of a temper, and on any other day he would have been laughing about this the whole time. The last four days-

Don't matter, any more than it matters what words would have filled those jagged pauses in the other man's babbling.

"It's all right," Zevran says gently.

"It's not all right." The man sniffles wetly, and Zevran winces, feeling even guiltier. "I can't believe I did that. Fuck, I am such a dick, I swear I'm not usually like this-"

"It's all right," Zevran says with more force. "I would not have been at my best, either, had I come home to that."

Though now that he thinks about it, why wasn't the man home before now? Zevran's schedule is so erratic, he sometimes forgets that the rest of the world operates on an actual routine, but the more his brain wakes up, the more questions he has. If the guy was home for that...

Maker, what a thought.

"You're out late, my friend," he says, fishing a little. The man doesn't sound drunk, though the anger and tears might be hiding it.

"Just got back." He sighs, an exhale that goes on so long Zevran ends up holding his own breath, waiting for it to end. "Deployment."

"Welcome home?" Zevran says, daring to tease a little.

It gets a weak, damp laugh. "Yeah, sure." He mutters something Zevran can't make out, then says, "I really am sorry about this."

"Pretend it didn't happen," Zevran says, making sure the smile is clear in his voice. "Get a little sleep, and pretend this was nothing but a bad dream."

"That's what it feels like." He laughs again, and it's significantly less pathetic than last time. "I'm gonna have to get a hotel, though. This place _reeks_."

Given the rest of the damage, Zevran hates to think what might have been outside the edges of the picture.

"And that's if I can sleep," the man adds. "Andraste fucking save me, I feel like I just mainlined a triple espresso."

Zevran snorts out a soft laugh. He knows the feeling: his heart is still beating a little too fast. Phone calls at five o'clock in the morning never mean anything good.

There's an awkward pause, that silence when everyone involved knows it's time to end the call but no one wants to seem rude by saying so.

Since this phone call is the only thing between Zevran and sleep, that's not really an issue for him right now. He opens his mouth to wish the man the best of luck, just as the man blurts out, "Can I make it up to you somehow?"

 _By letting me sleep?_ Zevran thinks, but ingrained habit drops his voice just a bit lower as he asks, halfway between teasing and seductive, "What did you have in mind?"

"Um." Silence. "I, uh..." Another silence, then, apropos of nothing and a bit desperate: "I'm Alistair."

"Lovely to meet you, Alistair," Zevran says gravely. "And did you intend to make this up to me with yourself?"

"Nonono, sorry, I just, um, I just realized I never introduced myself, and, um, well, I thought I should, because I've been rude, and I didn't want to keep being rude, and it's rude not to introduce yourself, I mean, not that you're being rude, I wasn't trying to say you were being rude, I didn't really give you a chance to introduce yourself, because I was being rude, and, um, so, yeah, anyway..." He takes a deep, gasping breath. "Coffee?" The last syllable almost squeaks, and Zevran smothers a laugh.

"An appropriate choice for this-" unholy "-hour of the morning." Zevran wavers for a second, torn between curiosity and the pull of his nice warm blankets, then shrugs and gives in. Curiosity will be the death of him one of these days, but until then, he'll enjoy it. "Did you have somewhere in mind?"

###

It's cold outside, and Zevran almost turns around and goes back to bed when the sleet-laden air smacks him in the face. Why did he move to Denerim again? What part of "frozen, ass-end of Thedas" did he not consider when he agreed to be stationed here?

He shies away from that with the ease of long practice, knowing exactly why he wanted to come here. That's a scar that doesn't need to be picked at, ever, and especially not right now. He'll meet Alistair for coffee, flirt shamelessly for a few hours until the other man stops sounding like he might burst into tears at any second, then come home and turn off every electronic device in the apartment so he can sleep until tomorrow morning.

Satisfied with his plan, he steps up to the curb just as his ride gets there, and he slides into the backseat, shedding sleet pellets everywhere as he gives the address to the driver. The car is warm, at least, and he's just starting to get comfortable when they arrive. Days like today, he really misses Antiva.

It's still dark outside, the morning crowd only just beginning to trickle in, and the coffee shop is mostly empty. Zevran scans the room and picks Alistair out at once: the blond in the corner, turning a coffee mug around and around in his hands like he's trying to drill through the table with it. His face is flushed a little, and when he looks up at Zevran, the flush spreads out to turn his whole face red.

Zevran grins and winks at him, and amazingly, somehow, the blush gets even deeper. It's impressive, and Zevran immediately starts planning ways to find out exactly how red Alistair can get.

Coffee first, though, hot enough to scald his hands through the mug and with enough caffeine to keep him going a while longer. He's been living on caffeine for the last four days; what's another few hours?

Alistair's face has mostly returned to normal when Zevran slides into the chair across the table from him, though a bit of pink remains, high on his cheeks. Zevran smiles into his mug and takes a slow sip of his coffee, letting the heat and the caffeine begin their work.

"I already deleted it," Alistair says.

Zevran raises an eyebrow at him. "My friend, this is becoming a habit, you starting conversations backwards. Or is it merely my charming presence which confuses you?"

Alistair's face turns a shade of red so brilliant he could stand in for a traffic light. "The, um, the picture. I deleted it. I just wanted you to know."

Picture? The picture Alistair sent? Why would that matter? Or does he mean...?

Zevran digs in his pocket for his phone and flips through it. When he finds the picture he sent to Alistair, he bursts out laughing. He sleeps naked more often than not, and it hadn't even crossed his mind when he took the picture. The bathroom counter saves the photo from being obscene, but only barely, and if it weren't for the fierce scowl on Zevran's face, it would be exactly the sort of picture he would text to a lover.

"You could have kept it, if you wished," Zevran says. He looks up in time to catch the flash of interest in Alistair's eyes, and despite his exhaustion, it strikes a small spark deep in his chest. "Or I could send you another."

Alistair chokes on his coffee and nearly spills the remainder on both of them in his haste to grab for napkins to wipe his face. Elbows on the table, hands and napkins covering his face, he says, "Maker save me, I swear I'm not usually this much of an idiot."

Muffled as his voice is, he still sounds honestly horrified, and Zevran makes a mental note to dial it back a few notches. The goal is to make Alistair laugh, not have him melt away from mortification.

"It's been a long day for you already," he says instead of something more flirtatious. "It excuses much."

"Thanks," Alistair says, without lowering his hands.

They sit that way for almost a minute, Zevran sipping his coffee while Alistair hides behind the napkins and the other patrons throw them odd looks. He must look like a complete asshole, smiling calmly while Alistair appears to be having a breakdown. No one else can tell it's embarrassment rather than tears that Alistair's hiding.

When it looks as if some kind-hearted soul might decide to join them and make this ten times more awkward, Zevran nudges Alistair's foot under the table and says, "Back from deployment, you said?"

"Are you going to tell me you love a man in uniform?" Alistair asks, lowering the napkins enough to peer at Zevran suspiciously.

"Well, since you mentioned it," Zevran says, drawing the words out, then laughs when Alistair groans. "No, perhaps we can take that as read. I was only going to ask where you'd been."

"Oh," Alistair says, straightening in his chair. He gives Zevran a last suspicious look, like he's not sure if he's being mocked, then says, "Haven. They're still trying to clean up after that clusterfuck."

Perhaps not the best choice of conversational topic then. Fortunately, Zevran's never had a problem with changing plans on the fly. "What do you do, then?"

"I'm with the 73rd," Alistair says, shrugging out of his jacket and rolling up his t-shirt sleeve to show Zevran the stylized gryphon tattooed on his upper arm.

Impressed despite himself, Zevran smiles. "The Wardens. I've worked with some of yours, from time to time."

"Are you in the army, then?" Alistair asks, dubious.

That dubious tone makes Zevran want to laugh, because he feels almost the same way about Alistair. The Wardens he's worked with in the past weren't much prone to stammering and blushing. "An auxiliary branch, you might say."

Before Alistair can ask what, exactly, an "auxiliary branch" does, Zevran asks, "Have you been with the Wardens long?" The easiest way to distract people from asking personal questions about him is to ask them about themselves.

"Ten years?" Alistair asks, eyes rolled up to the ceiling as he counts. "No, I joined when I was eighteen, so twelve years."

He looks really good for thirty--not an easy thirty at that--and Zevran tells him so. "I wouldn't have taken you for more than twenty."

Alistair snorts, unimpressed. "Yeah, sure."

Interesting. So not concerned about his age, even though he must work hard to keep up with men and women ten years his junior.

"Is this where I'm supposed to say that back to you?" Alistair asks, skeptical.

"What?" Zevran demands, mock-outraged. "Am I not a perfect specimen? How could you say I look a day over twenty?"

"You don't look a day over twenty," Alistair repeats obediently. He's starting to smile for real, not the strained, nervous smile that made Zevran want to pat him on the head and say, "There, there, it'll be all right."

"Hmph," Zevran says, turning his face away. It brings the tattoos on his cheek clearly into the light, and he's one-hundred-percent aware of how much people like to look at them.

But when he checks from his peripheral vision, Alistair's gaze is on his eyes, not his cheek. Which means Zevran has been caught checking. Damn.

He gives Alistair a cheeky grin, acknowledging that he's busted, and turns back to face him. "Now that we've dispensed with the important matter of my brilliance, tell me more about yourself."

In the middle of taking his jacket off completely, Alistair freezes, the deer-in-the-headlights look coming back. "Me? What about me? I'm boring."

Zevran squints at him, and at his half-off jacket. "Are all Fereldans insane?"

"What?"

"Are all of you insane? You sit in a t-shirt when there's _sleet_ outside?" For emphasis, Zevran pulls his own coat tighter around himself.

"Ummm...I'm not outside?" Something clicks in Alistair's head, Zevran can watch it happen. "You're Antivan, aren't you?"

Zevran nods and watches, intrigued, as Alistair comes to a second realization. What that realization is, he doesn't get to find out, because all Alistair says is, "I was in Antiva for a couple months last year. I thought I was going to drown."

Deliberately misunderstanding him, Zevran says, "If you avoid falling into the water, you'll find it much easier to not drown."

Alistair kicks him under the table. "The humidity. I thought I was going to drown from the humidity."

"Really?" Zevran asks, hiding his mouth behind his coffee mug so that Alistair can't look at anything except his eyes. "And I find that I quite enjoy when things are, shall we say, steamy?"

And there's the blush again, though not as fierce as before. Zevran can see he'll have to work for it now, and he looks forward to the challenge.

###

They talk until the morning rush really begins, and Zevran means to wind the conversation up, he really does, let both of them get back to their regularly-scheduled lives, but he's got one more story he just has to tell, and then that reminds Alistair of a joke, and then Zevran has to tease him by turning the joke into an innuendo, and then...and then...and then...

And there's always another "and then," until they've sat through the morning rush and into the beginnings of the lunch rush.

"Wow," Alistair says, staring at his phone. "Shit, sorry, I was trying to make up for being a rude asshole, not be even ruder by taking up your whole morning."

Zevran smiles as he pulls apart the last of his third croissant of the morning. "Do I strike you as the sort of man who would have stayed if he wasn't enjoying himself?"

Alistair blushes but doesn't drop his eyes. "I think you're a lot nicer than you like to pretend, so yeah, I think you would have."

Zevran blinks. "I can't say that many people have called me a nice man." Not unless he was actively playing that role, and he hasn't been, this morning. Oh, he started out just wanting to make Alistair laugh, but he hasn't been playing any role at all for most of the last five hours. Which is unusual all on its own.

It's only because he's tired, of course. Too much coffee and too little sleep, and he needs to tell Alistair goodbye so he can do something about the second one before he falls on his face.

Apparently Alistair is having similar thoughts, because he puts his phone away and drains the last of his coffee with one long swallow. "I should get started cleaning up," he says, not moving from his chair.

"It's quite a project," Zevran says by way of agreement. Cleaning up the disaster left behind by the unnamed ex-boyfriend--Zevran managed to extract the nature of the relationship but nothing else--will take hours, if not days, and replacing everything will be expensive.

The words are out before Zevran is aware he's even thinking them. "Would you care for some help?"

"What? No!" Alistair shakes his head hard, closing his eyes. "I mean, yes, of course I'd like help, but it's not your problem."

"It shouldn't be your problem, either," Zevran says. "And the work will go faster with two."

"It's fine, really," Alistair says. "I can deal with it."

"I would never doubt it," Zevran says. "However, the offer stands."

The part of him that just wants to sleep is demanding to know why he's pushing it. Alistair has given him an out, and he should be taking it. Except that Alistair's shoulders have slumped at the reminder of what's waiting for him at home, and his smile has disappeared. Zevran rather likes his smile.

"I..." Alistair chews on his lower lip. "You don't have to."

"I know," Zevran says. "But I have nothing else planned for today." He can sleep when he's dead.

Alistair is searching his face, clearly torn. "Are you sure?"

"Entirely," Zevran says with his most blinding smile.

It leaves Alistair dazed, and his mouth opens twice before he shakes his head to clear it. _"Thank you,"_ he says, with such fervor that Zevran knows he did right to offer.

###

Alistair lives a few blocks away in a tiny efficiency apartment even smaller than Zevran's. Standing just inside the front door, Zevran now understands why it was impossible to tell from the picture whether this was a bedroom or a living room: it's both, the apartment too small to have separate spaces. To his right is a bathroom, to his left a doorway that leads into a galley kitchen so small the stove only has two burners.

"I'd offer you something to drink," Alistair says with forced humor, "but I'm all out right now. Asshole left the fridge and freezer open, too."

Which explains the smell of rotting meat that Zevran was trying hard to ignore. Lovely. Time for both of them to focus on something else.

"I believe I've had enough coffee to last me at least a few minutes," Zevran says with a smile. "In the meantime, where shall we start?"

"Um." Alistair looks around helplessly, his hands curling and uncurling at his sides. "I...the kitchen, I guess? Or maybe the bathroom? Or would it be better to start here?"

The dithering is mildly annoying, until Zevran reminds himself that it's not his apartment that's been torn apart, not his stuff scattered everywhere. And even if it was, he has plenty of experience at dealing with things like this. The Crows didn't like to let their students get too attached to anything, or feel like they were safe just because they locked a door. Somehow, he doesn't think Alistair's training included anything similar.

If deciding how they tackle this mess will make Alistair feel more in control, Zevran isn't going to take over, but standing here staring won't fix anything. "May I make a suggestion?"

"Oh thank the Maker," Alistair mutters. Then, louder, "Suggest away."

"You said the refrigerator was left open?"

"There wasn't much in it," Alistair says with a shrug. "But the freezer's a mess. Frozen burgers, that kind of thing."

"Then let us start there, so the smell has some time to dissipate."

Alistair is already in motion, headed for the kitchen, and Zevran follows behind, trying not to smile. If Alistair wants to let him organize this mission, that's perfectly fine. He's more than capable.

The freezer is, indeed, a mess, full of thawed and partially refrozen meat and bags of vegetables. That it's partially refrozen actually helps, as does the fact that they're not trying to salvage anything. It's just a matter of shoveling it from the freezer into a trash bag, then sending Alistair out to toss it in the dumpster.

While he's gone, Zevran takes the opportunity to survey the damage. The contents of the refrigerator are the least of it. Just in the kitchen, the damage is spectacular, a number of creative epithets carved into the linoleum and the front of every single cabinet. Much of the writing on the floor is hidden under broken glass and ceramic, but Zevran can fill in the blanks.

The epithets continue in the bathroom, this time written in toothpaste on every square inch of the mirror. There's also a pile of books in the shower, already beginning to mold. Back out in the main room, the remains of the bookcase take up half the floor; poking through them, he finds Alistair's clothes scattered among the pieces, most of them ripped and covered in the same red paint that's splashed on the walls. The TV is on the floor, upright but with so many cracks in the frame Zevran would be afraid to turn it on.

The worst of it, though, is the photo album. Zevran almost trips over a piece of the cover, and once he knows to look, he can see ripped photos everywhere.

He's gathered up a few of the pieces and is looking for a place to set them down when the front door opens. There's a pause, then the front door closes very quietly, and Alistair says in a strained voice, "Don't worry about that. Just...throw them away."

Zevran's head snaps up, and he stares. "Throw them away?"

"What else am I supposed to do with them?" The words are sharp, but as soon as they're out, Alistair closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Sorry, didn't mean to yell at you. Some of those are just...they're all I've got from my mom, okay? So they're...kind of important to me. Or they were." He opens his eyes and smiles weakly. "Sorry."

The urge to hug him is nearly overwhelming, but Zevran looks down at the torn pictures in his hands instead. A few of them are too small to even tell what the picture was, but most of them are only torn in half. "I might know someone who could help."

"I can tape them back together on my own, thanks."

Zevran ignores the sarcasm. "There's nothing to be done about the album, but the pictures could be scanned, put back together."

"I don't have that kind of money."

"The someone in question owes me a favor or three." He looks up, smiles at Alistair. "You would find her rates very reasonable."

To Zevran's surprise, Alistair folds himself down to sit on the floor, back against the front door and knees pulled up tight to his chest. He looks about to cry again, and this time, Zevran gives in to the impulse to touch him, leaving the torn pictures behind to pick his way carefully across the room and sit beside Alistair, shoulder to shoulder.

"A long day already, yes?" he asks quietly, more to say something than because he needs an answer.

"Too fucking long," Alistair says to his knees. "And Maker's breath, I swear I'm not usually a mess like this. You've got to think I'm the biggest baby in the world." He rubs one cheek against his knee, and they both pretend he isn't wiping away tears. "Or a nutjob."

Zevran looks around the room again, taking in the damage. "No, I think whoever did _this_ is a nutjob."

"Yeah, kind of," Alistair says. He puts his forehead on his knees, muffling his voice. "He didn't seem like one at first. I mean, looking back, yeah, I can see the signs, but at the time? I missed it completely."

"You would not be the first," Zevran says, leaning into him.

"I know." He sniffs a little, laughs briefly. "But that really doesn't make me feel less stupid. Andraste's ashes, the shit he would do. It was...kinda cute at first? Like he was teasing me. Except it never stopped."

"Are you familiar with the term 'gas-lighting'?" Zevran asks dryly.

Alistair shakes his head without lifting it from his knees.

"I recommend looking it up sometime." He leans closer, resting his head on Alistair's shoulder. "Suffice it to say for now, I think you neither a baby nor a nutjob."

"Thanks," Alistair whispers.

They sit like that for a while, until Alistair's breathing is slow and even, then Zevran says, "Perhaps we come back to this tomorrow?"

"We?" Alistair asks.

"We," Zevran says firmly.

"It's not going to be any better tomorrow."

"But we will have had some sleep."

"Maker," Alistair mutters. "I don't think I could sleep right now." His head comes up at last, and he cranes around to look at Zevran. "But shit, I woke you up and pulled you into my drama, you're probably tired."

Zevran isn't sure he could sleep either, right now. He's too busy fighting off the urge to call in a few other favors and find out who had his cell number before him. "You needn't worry about me."

Alistair heaves a huge sigh. "Then you know what? I'd rather just get this done. Get it out of the way, not have it hanging over me." He coughs. "I mean, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," Zevran says. He considers the mess before nodding decisively. "Divide and conquer, I think. The bathroom for you and the kitchen for me, and then we shall see what we see."

"And how late it is," Alistair says. The words are gloomy, but his tone isn't, and when Zevran lets go of him, the first thing he does is reach out and snag a torn fragment of a picture. "You really know someone who could fix these?"

"Recreate them, really, but yes. I've seen her work magic before, and with less to go on. Though it will be quicker if we piece them together for her first, so she knows which goes with which."

Alistair doesn't answer immediately, and when Zevran looks over, his expression is odd.

Before Zevran can ask what's wrong, Alistair asks again, "We?" Like he can't quite believe it without hearing it again.

Zevran leans over enough to bump their shoulders together. "We."


	2. Chapter 2

It takes most of the afternoon to clear out the kitchen, the bathroom, and enough floor space in the main room for a bed. A bed they then have to buy. And haul back to the apartment. And assemble. It's nearly seven by the time they finish, and even vast amounts of coffee aren't enough to keep them from staring blearily at each other across their picnic dinner of takeout Antivan, eaten sitting cross-legged on the newly-assembled bed.

There's a solid five minutes after they've finished eating where they just sit in silence, swaying gently in sync with each other. Zevran's eyes are trying desperately to close, and only force of will is keeping them open.

"Trash," Alistair mumbles, gesturing vaguely at the empty cartons spread out between them. "I'm gonna...put the trash in the...ummm...trash."

Zevran nods, and he knows he's nodding too long, but his head won't stop moving up and down. "An excellent plan," he says, enunciating as if he were drunk.

"Yeah," Alistair says.

They stare at each other for another minute or so, then Alistair unfolds himself and stands, moving like he's not quite sure where his limbs are. Zevran knows the feeling all too well.

At least they've cleared a path to the kitchen, the bathroom, and the front door, so there's no longer a danger of tripping on something. And Zevran really needs to take that clear path to the front door: get up and go home, before he reaches the point where he's walking into walls.

Instead of doing anything that smart, he makes the mistake of lying down. He's cold—they had the windows open earlier to clear out the smell, and the apartment hasn’t warmed back up yet--but he's slept in far worse conditions than this. The mattress is as comfortable now as it was when they tried it out in the store, and the sheets smell wonderfully clean. Everything else is irrelevant.

He wakes up--sort of--to the sound of someone whispering his name. Prying one eye open, he finds Alistair standing beside the bed. "Mm?"

"I w's gonna put a blanket on you," Alistair says, sounding no more awake than Zevran feels, "so don' punch me, 'kay?"

"Punch?" Why would Zevran punch him?

"Crows," Alistair says knowingly. "Don' startle 'em."

"Good rule," Zevran says, jolted a little closer to wakefulness by Alistair's words. "How did you know I was a Crow?"

Alistair shrugs sloppily, his shoulders moving more than they need to. "You watch t'much," he says. "Watch ev'body."

Smarter than Zevran gave him credit for, then. Interesting.

Or it will be interesting, after twelve or so hours of sleep. Rather than think about it now, he reaches out for the blanket Alistair is holding and tries to drape it over himself, only half successfully.

While he's struggling with it, Alistair shuffles a little closer, his forehead wrinkled as if he's worrying about something. "C'n I lie down?"

"Your bed." His grab for Alistair's wrist is surprisingly successful given he can't make his eyes focus. The tug that follows is equally successful, which turns out to be a problem when Alistair loses his balance and falls onto the bed and Zevran.

Zevran supposes he could protest or try to move, but Alistair is a lot warmer than the blankets. "Your country," he says, gathering his wits long enough to form each word perfectly, "is entirely too cold."

"Is not." Alistair apparently finds him to be a satisfactory pillow, because he's not moving, either. "Is jus' fine."

"We will discuss this later," Zevran informs him, eyes shutting again.

Alistair doesn't even bother to answer.

###

Zevran wakes up too warm, which is new and different. He's barely managed to maintain "warm enough" ever since he came to Ferelden, and except for trips elsewhere, he resigned himself a long time ago to being cold for the rest of his life. So never mind the sweat beginning to bead along the back of his neck; warm is nice. What's even nicer is the warm body wrapped around him and the warm breath stirring a few strands of his hair.

Even through their clothes, Alistair radiates heat, and Zevran burrows closer. They rolled over at some point, and now they're facing each other, legs tangled and Zevran's face buried in Alistair's chest. Alistair's arm is loose around his shoulders, holding without pinning him in place, and Zevran honestly can't remember the last time he woke up like this. Sex is fun, but Zevran doesn't stay after the fun has been had. Sleeping next to people he barely knows breaks too many of the rules the Crows taught him, and his hindbrain remembers even when the rest of him would rather forget.

Except apparently his hindbrain has decided those rules don't apply to Alistair, and that's more than a little unsettling. It's almost as unsettling as the realization that Zevran doesn't want to move, no matter how much he feels like he should. Is this how normal people feel, discovering they like to be tied up, or humiliated, or beaten with whips by a woman wearing black vinyl who demands they call her mistress? It's hard to be sure--Zevran has never had any interest in being normal--but probably.

Alistair mumbles something in his sleep, his arm tightening around Zevran's shoulders as his legs shift, one of them sliding up so that it's nearly around Zevran's waist. It pulls Zevran that much closer, until he's practically riding Alistair's thigh, which is as warm and solid as the rest of him. One of his own legs is between both of Alistair's, and he can feel Alistair's half-hard cock against his hip.

Just a normal reaction to being so close, he tells himself. It doesn't mean that Alistair is actually interested in starting anything, or in participating if Zevran were to start something.

In memory, Alistair looks very interested by the idea of getting another naked picture of Zevran. What would he do if Zevran were to send him one? And would it be better to send one that teases, or one that shows him exactly what he could have? Zevran in a dress shirt open down the front, or naked but with his back turned, or sprawled out on his bed with his hard cock in his hand?

Before he can decide, or decide that he needs to think about something else before he gets too involved in any fantasies, Alistair twitches himself awake. His arm jerks away, but then, very slowly, settles back where it was.

Interesting.

"Good morning," Zevran says, holding very still.

Alistair swallows, the noise clearly audible with Zevran's ear only a few inches from his throat. " _Is_ it morning?"

His voice is gravelly, and Zevran doesn't try to hide the way it makes him shiver. "I assume it is," he murmurs, "but I will admit that I didn't check."

"Oh." His hand spreads out against Zevran's back, warm through the heavy cotton of the shirt. "Have you...ummm...have you been awake for a while?"

"Not long." Moving slowly, Zevran lets his own hand drift down Alistair's spine, feeling the muscles shift under his t-shirt.

"Did you-" He breaks off with a small gasp as Zevran's fingertips find a sliver of skin between the hem of his t-shirt and the waistband of his jeans.

When he doesn't continue, Zevran pretends nothing unusual is happening and prompts in his most innocent tone, "Did I...?"

"I...don't even remember," Alistair admits with an embarrassed laugh. "I'm not awake yet, I guess." His fingers flex against Zevran's back, then begin to creep upward at a painfully slow pace, like he's afraid to move too fast.

"Shall I make guesses?" Zevran asks. He tilts his head so that his mouth rests against Alistair's throat. Not a kiss, but close enough that Alistair will feel his lips every time he speaks.

"Guesses?" Alistair sounds a little strangled. "Guesses for what?"

"As to what you meant to ask me." He lets the pad of his thumb drag over that patch of bare skin at the small of Alistair's back, widening the gap between jeans and shirt. "I make guesses, and we see if it jogs your memory."

Alistair's fingers finally reach the collar of Zevran's shirt and venture past it to toy with the fine hairs at the base of his skull. It sends an electric shiver down Zevran's spine, and he makes a pleased noise into Alistair's skin.

"Zev?" Alistair whispers.

"Yes?" Zevran asks, still playing innocent.

This time, he can feel Alistair swallow as well as hear it. "Are you okay?"

"Should I not be?"

Alistair licks his lips once, twice, then bends his head to nudge at Zevran's cheek with his nose. Every movement is slow and careful as he lines up their mouths, his breathing shallow. Just short of making contact, he stops, peering worriedly into Zevran's eyes. "Are you okay with...with this?"

For an answer, Zevran closes that last, tiny space between them. He doesn't try for anything wild, just touches his mouth to Alistair's long enough to make it clear the contact is deliberate, then pulls back a little ways, all without breaking eye contact. "Entirely okay," he murmurs. "Unless you intend to stop there."

"Not really," Alistair says, and this time, he's the one who leans in.

The kiss is light at first, a brush of lips that's followed by another, and another, before the tip of his tongue slips out to trace the edge of Zevran's lower lip. Zevran tilts his head for a better angle, and Alistair takes the invitation, pressing closer to taste the corners of his mouth.

It goes on for what feels like hours, kiss after kiss, some long and some short but all of them slow. Lazy, almost. The kind of kisses for when there's all the time in the world and no need to get anywhere fast, the kind Zevran might give if the sex has been particularly spectacular and he's waiting for his legs to remember how to walk him to the door.

And okay, yes, the kind he gives when he wants to tease, but never the kind people give him unless he won't let them have more. That shouldn't be an issue here, since he's not sure he can make it any clearer that Alistair can have a whole lot more. Forget "his for the asking;" try "his for the taking.” Or maybe he's waiting for Zevran to lead?

That has to be it, but when Zevran reaches for Alistair's zipper to speed things up, Alistair catches his hand. His grip is gentle, fingers folded carefully around Zevran's, and yet, it's unmistakably a "no."

Zevran knows at least a dozen other ways to try to convince Alistair to move on to the fun parts, none of which require his hands. He's still a bit sleepy, though, and it's remarkably easy to get lost in nothing more than the slow glide of lips and tongues, and the occasional sharp bite of teeth. At some point, he slips his hand free to touch Alistair's cheek, rubbing his palm over the stubble there, and just relaxes into the dreamlike quality of the whole thing. If this is what Alistair wants, Zevran is willing to give it to him.

When Alistair does finally move, it's to roll them over so he's on top, one arm braced beside Zevran's head and the other hand sliding under his shirt. His thumb traces the line of Zevran's ribs as his mouth traces a similar arc along Zevran's jaw to his ear.

"What do you like?" Alistair murmurs. There's only a trace of uncertainty left in his voice.

"So many things," Zevran says, turning his head to give Alistair better access to his neck. "Shall I suck your cock? Or would you rather fuck me?"

Alistair answers by leaning back enough that they can see each other. He's frowning slightly, and his hand under Zevran's shirt has stopped moving. "But what do _you_ like?"

It's not really a surprise that Alistair is the kind of person who would turn down a blowjob in favor of asking a partner their preferences. Zevran grins up at him. He wants Alistair's cock in his mouth, filling his throat as Alistair groans and begs, but he's also happy to let himself be taken care of. Alistair would definitely not be the first person Zevran has met who got off on serving someone else's needs.

"I like your mouth on me," he says. "What else can you do with it?"

A faint blush spreads over Alistair's cheeks, but he smiles back. "Want me to show you?"

Zevran waves one hand in regal permission. "Please do." Alistair leans back down to bite the point of his ear, and Zevran adds, "I admit I was imagining something a little different."

Alistair laughs quietly and kisses the place where he bit, leaving a trail of kisses from the point of Zevran's ear to the hollow behind it. "Like that?"

"Better," Zevran allows.

"Hm." Alistair kisses his way down Zevran's throat, scraping teeth over his collarbone and licking the hollow at the base of his throat. "What about that?"

"Better."

Laughing, Alistair sits up and shoves at Zevran's shirt until Zevran helps him strip it off. His movements are quick and efficient, and Zevran wonders if he's finally gotten impatient with slow. It's absolutely not disappointment Zevran feels. Absolutely not.

Then it turns out he didn't need to worry. As soon as Zevran's shirt is out of the way, Alistair goes back to kissing his way across Zevran's body at a maddening pace.

Mouth against Zevran's ribs, right over his heart, Alistair asks, "What about now? Was this what you wanted?"

"Better."

Alistair kisses his way around one nipple and then the other, making two complete figure-eights before he even rubs his cheek over one, then another figure-eight before he catches one between his teeth. He tugs gently, then less gently, and hums, pleased, when Zevran's hips rock against his.

Letting go, he looks up. "And now?"

It's not as easy to sound vaguely bored this time, but Zevran has practice. "Better."

Alistair sucks again on the nipple he just bit, and Zevran threads a hand through his hair. Not trying to steer, just wanting to encourage him, to make it clear that the feigned disinterest is just a joke.

Whether he needed the encouragement or had already planned to continue, Alistair's mouth moves on, taking a wandering path along Zevran's ribs. At the bottom of his ribcage, stubble tickling the sensitive skin at his waist, Alistair asks again, "Now?"

"Better."

He can feel Alistair's smile, and it makes him smile in return, then laugh silently when Alistair heads in the wrong direction, back up toward his chest rather than down toward his cock, which is now hard enough to press painfully against his zipper. "Not better."

Alistair kisses all the way up and over to the hollow of Zevran's shoulder, then across to the other, then down to his nipples again, stopping at each to ask, "What about now?" Nipples to throat to ear, ear to nipples to shoulders to nipples, teeth dragging over skin this time. "What about now?" He spends some indeterminate length of time licking and biting Zevran's neck, ends with his lips against Zevran's ear as he asks the question yet again.

By the time Alistair unzips Zevran's jeans and begins to work them off, kissing his way down Zevran's legs and pausing occasionally to ask his question, Zevran can barely remember what it refers to, just knows his part in this game and what he's supposed to say each time. And of course, once Zevran's jeans and boxers are in a pile on the floor, Alistair starts with his feet, kissing the top of each before starting back up. He wanders just as much, up and down, lingering on the inside of Zevran's knee, breath warm on Zevran's skin when he asks his question.

Zevran has been worshipped before, by men and women both, and at first, he thinks that's all this is, Alistair finding pleasure in pleasing him. There are plenty worse ways for someone to get off, but the more Zevran watches him, the more he realizes that his initial assumption wasn’t quite right. This isn't about pleasing Zevran to please Alistair; it's just about pleasing Zevran, period. And that's definitely not something Zevran knows how to deal with.

So he ignores it, which is actually pretty easy, because Alistair is finally kissing along the crease at the top of his thigh, and this time, he doesn't stop short of Zevran's cock. He kisses the head and looks up at Zevran through his lashes, grinning and blushing at the same time. "What about now?"

"Almost," Zevran says, then groans as Alistair's lips wrap around his cock and slide down. All the way down, too, though Alistair gags on the first attempt, has to lift up and try again, changing the angle slightly the second time, and oh, _fuck_ , Zevran wasn't expecting that, wasn't prepared for it, and he clutches at the blankets to stop himself from thrusting up into Alistair's mouth.

He has to keep that grip, too, because Alistair isn't done teasing. Every stroke is slow, and Alistair's mouth sometimes leaves his cock to press kisses to his thighs or his balls. He never stops for long, though, and when his mouth is around Zevran's cock, he takes it all the way to the back of his throat every time.

Zevran's forebrain is getting just enough blood to be amazed. He'd expected blushing inexperience, someone who needed guidance and encouragement to suck him at all, not someone who can deepthroat him without struggling.

The rest of his body wants to know what in the Maker's name is wrong with him, that he's thinking rather than enjoying this, and he's just as happy to give in. Alistair is starting to pick up speed, sucking in quick breaths at the top of each stroke, and Zevran can't tear his eyes away from the sight of his cock disappearing into Alistair's mouth.

Alistair looks up and locks eyes with him, and Zevran almost swears at him when he stops to lift his head. He coughs once to clear his throat, then says without breaking eye contact, "I want you to come in my mouth."

He doesn't wait for an answer before wrapping his lips around Zevran's cock again. There's no more thinking after that, just heat twisting and building in Zevran's gut, a grenade waiting to go off, and that's exactly what it feels like at the end, like the orgasm explodes through him, blinding and deafening as it obliterates everything.

His mouth and throat are dry from gasping by the time he can think again, and his muscles are still twitching and jumping. He's pretty sure he made some very undignified noises, but he's mostly focused on Alistair, who has his forehead pressed to Zevran's hip and is jerking himself off in quick, hard strokes.

"Alistair," Zevran croaks, tugging gently at his hair.

The response is a faint whimper that turns into a groan as Alistair bucks into his fist and comes, shuddering and gasping.

None of this has gone the way Zevran expected, and despite the post-coital haze that's got him melting into the bed, he feels kind of bad. He wanted to make this good for Alistair, not leave him to jerk himself off. The man is still almost fully dressed, for fuck's sake.

Alistair's body goes lax, and he sucks in a deep breath that rattles a little. "Fuck," he mutters into Zevran's thigh. Then, even quieter, "Sorry."

What?

Zevran squints down the bed at him, scrambling for the reboot button on his brain. "I believe I should be apologizing to you, if anyone should be."

"Okay, forget I said that," Alistair says, burying his face deeper in Zevran's leg. "Sorry, didn't mean to make this weird."

A number of things go through Zevran's head in quick succession, none of which he says aloud. "Forget what, dulce mio?" Because if anyone deserves to be called sweet, it's Alistair. "Did you say something?"

Alistair gives him a weak smile, and that's all wrong, so Zevran stretches, making a show of it. He focuses on looking smug and satisfied, as opposed to vaguely homicidal, and he's rewarded by Alistair's smile turning genuine, if crooked.

Better, but still not right. Smirking, he beckons Alistair with two fingers. "As much as I enjoyed your mouth earlier, it's difficult to kiss you all the way down there."

The flush comes back, but the guilty look disappears, and Alistair crawls up the bed. He's already wiped off his hand and zipped his jeans up, and Zevran immediately begins to make plans for getting him back out of them.

While he thinks, he flips them over so he's lying on Alistair's chest, able to control the kisses this time. Alistair's lips are red and a little swollen, and Zevran's are too warm, but he doesn't let that stop him, kissing Alistair until Alistair is kissing him back with enthusiasm.

"Could I impose on you for a shower?" Zevran asks, when Alistair is completely relaxed again.

"Oh yeah, sure," Alistair says, leaning up for another kiss. "I should take one, too, but you can go first."

Zevran arches an eyebrow at him. "While your shower might be a bit small, I'm reasonably sure we would both fit." He gives Alistair his best smile. "I would enjoy trying, at any rate."

"Until I accidentally elbow you in the face while I'm washing my hair," Alistair says, smiling.

"I'm very quick on my feet," Zevran assures him. "And think how frugal it would be. Saving on all that hot water."

"Frugal." Alistair gives a disbelieving laugh. "Right, nice try, but I was going to get breakfast while you were showering. I'm starving."

"Then we have breakfast now and shower after," Zevran says with a shrug.

"You've seen my shower," Alistair says. "Do you really want to risk my elbows?"

Zevran pretends to give this careful thought, propping his forearms on Alistair's chest and rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. "Let's consider. You would be naked...dripping water...covered in soap so I could-"

"-slip and fall-"

"-stroke my hands over every inch of you." He narrows his eyes at Alistair, who grins unrepentantly. "Besides, if the shower is so small I risk your elbows, then it will be too small for me to slip."

"That's what you think." Alistair steals another kiss, running his hands lightly down Zevran's back, and Zevran gives a pleased hum. "What did you want for breakfast?"

"Does this mean that my brilliant logic has convinced you?"

"No," Alistair says, starting to laugh.

"What about my charming smile? I have a very charming smile." Zevran demonstrates it for him.

"Still no."

"You wound me," Zevran informs him, leaning down for another kiss to make it clear he's joking. "You've insulted both my looks and my brilliant wit, and I'm deeply hurt."

"And if I ask, you're going to tell me I can make it up to you by showering with you."

"An excellent plan!" Zevran says. "As smart as you are beautiful, dulce mio. So now that we've settled that, let's discuss breakfast."

Alistair laughs helplessly and throws up his hands, almost banging his knuckles on the wall above the bed. "Okay, you win. Breakfast first, then shower. That coffee shop? The one from yesterday? They do pretty good breakfast burritos." He makes a face. "And then I should go grocery shopping, so I can stop living on takeout."

"Grocery shopping after we shower," Zevran says, because he has plans for that shower. Very important plans.

###

They buy too many pastries to go with their burritos and take all of it back to Alistair's apartment so they can eat breakfast the same way they ate dinner, cross-legged on the bed with the food spread out between them. Zevran is just eyeing the last croissant when Alistair says quietly, "He...ummm...he was kind of weird about sex."

No need to ask who "he" is, and Zevran instantly goes on alert, though he doesn't let his body tense.

"All these rules about when I could do what," Alistair goes on. He shrugs a shoulder. "I guess that doesn't sound so bad, does it? I mean, don't some people like that kind of thing?"

"Some do," Zevran agrees in as neutral a voice as he can manage. "Do you?"

"Not really," Alistair says. "And I kind of had to figure out his rules as I went, so I never knew if I'd messed up until it was too late."

Zevran is feeling homicidal again, but he limits himself to rubbing Alistair's knee.

"It's hard to explain," Alistair goes on. "You maybe had to be there? Ugh, no, never mind, don't visualize." He slaps himself lightly on the face, like he's trying to knock the thought out of his head, and Zevran smiles a little. "I just...every time I try to explain, it sounds stupid."

"What was the word you used yesterday?" Zevran asks. "Nutjob? Believe me, I know which of you is the nutjob here, and it was certainly not you."

"I know," Alistair says. "I do, I know it's not on me that he did all this crazy shit, and mostly it's fine. Just sometimes, it bites me in the ass when I'm not paying attention."

"I understand," Zevran says. He knows all about having a minefield in his head, waiting to explode when he least expects it.

Alistair shakes himself all over. "Anyway, sorry, I guess that was kind of weird, but I already dragged you into my drama, so I figured it was less weird to explain."

"I think you'll find it difficult to drag me into things I don't want to be dragged into." He squeezes Alistair's knee. "And even more difficult to find something I would consider weird." Unusual, sure. Wrong, definitely. But weird is a high bar at this point in his life.

"Thanks," Alistair says, looking down at Zevran's hand on his knee. "And thanks for all your help yesterday."

The words are tentative, almost a question, and Zevran's reasonably sure Alistair is trying to give him an out. He could take his shower and go on his way, with Alistair's gratitude for his help and nothing else.

Zevran ignores the offer. "Well, there's still work remaining for us today. I believe you mentioned grocery shopping? And you seem to be forgetting new clothes, as well."

He watches closely, waiting for any sign that Alistair wants him to go, but Alistair's shoulders slump in relief and he smiles as he says, "After we showered, I thought."

"Well, of course," Zevran says. He picks up the last croissant and tears it in half, offering one piece to Alistair. "Breakfast, shower, clothes, groceries, cleaning. And perhaps other things."

"Other things," Alistair repeats, croissant stopped halfway to his mouth. "What kind of other things?"

"Fun things," Zevran says with a wink, delighted when Alistair flushes a little. "I promise they will be only fun things."


	3. Chapter 3

The shower is as cramped as Alistair warned, but it gives Zevran plenty of excuses to rub himself against Alistair. He's not even trying to be subtle, playing it up for all it's worth just to hear Alistair laugh, and when Zevran wraps a soap-slicked hand around Alistair's cock, the reaction is gratifying.

Zevran jerks him off like that, pressed against his back, Alistair's hands braced on the wall of the shower and his head hanging down, his groans barely audible over the sound of water hitting tile. Zevran doesn't tease as much as Alistair teased him earlier, but he doesn't rush, either, enjoying the slide of Alistair's cock through his fist and the noises Alistair makes when his nipples are pinched. With his forehead resting between Alistair's shoulder blades, he can feel every twitch and tremor as it runs through Alistair's body.

Alistair sucks him afterward, Zevran's back against the wall of the shower and he would normally object to the cold tiles on his bare skin, except for the heat of Alistair's mouth. This time around, Zevran can pay attention to something other than his surprise, and Alistair really is good. Zevran loses himself in sensation, lets the orgasm creep up on him and leave him blissed out and weak-kneed. He doesn't fall over, but he's grateful for Alistair's shoulder, and then for Alistair's solid weight pinning him to the wall once Alistair stands back up.

"We should get out," he says, when he's sure his knees won't buckle.

Alistair kisses the side of his head before he straightens and turns in the limited free space of the shower enclosure. "I don't think we saved any hot water," he says as he shuts it off.

"But it was worth it, don't you think?" Zevran says, taking the opportunity to pinch his ass.

Alistair looks back at him, and his pupils are just a little too big for the bright light of the bathroom. "Oh yeah."

"Maybe we can do it again later," Zevran says, pinching the other ass cheek. "After we finish our chores."

"Chores," Alistair snorts. "That's a better word for it than 'clean up the mess left by my nutjob ex-boyfriend.'"

"That would be more than one word," Zevran points out, then dodges, laughing, as Alistair tries to pinch him in turn.

"None of that," he says as he escapes the shower and grabs for a towel. Or three. The towels aren't in the best shape, but they managed to find enough pieces to do the job.

He ends up wearing yesterday's jeans and shirt, along with two of Alistair's seven remaining socks. His boxers stay behind on the floor beside the bed, and he makes sure Alistair sees them before they head out. Shopping will take several hours, and Alistair can spend those hours knowing that Zevran is wearing nothing under his jeans. If necessary, Zevran is prepared to remind him.

###

Alistair makes the mistake of admitting that he hates shopping, at which point Zevran takes it as a personal challenge to make him change his mind, at least about this trip. It really is a challenge, too: Alistair has to replace nearly everything he owns, and the shopping cart piles up depressingly high as they work their way through the men's department of the nearest department store.

"Fuck," Alistair mutters as the cashier is ringing them up at the end. "I don't even want to know how much this is going to cost."

By habit, Zevran kept a running tally as they added things to the cart, but he knows better than to answer a rhetorical question. Instead, he says, "If you don't wish to carry this back on the bus, now would be the time to call for a ride."

Alistair gives the pile another look, somewhere between dejected and annoyed, and nods. "Yeah, I got it."

While he's typing away on his phone, Zevran manages to get ahead of him and swipe his own credit card. The cashier glances at him, curious, but when Zevran puts a finger to his lips and smiles, she shrugs and goes back to ringing them up.

By the time Alistair notices, Zevran is already signing. "Hey!"

Zevran cocks his head. "Hey?"

"You don't need to do that."

"I know," Zevran says, accepting his receipt from the cashier and stuffing it into his pocket before Alistair can get a look at it. "And yet, I can choose to do it anyway."

"Let me...I mean...fuck, let me pay for it. Seriously."

"Too late," Zevran says with an apologetic smile. "She would have to ring everything up a second time, and those in line behind us wouldn't be pleased."

Alistair looks over his shoulder, and while he's distracted, Zevran picks up as many of the bags as he can carry. When Alistair turns back, he takes in the bags, sighs, and picks up what's left without saying anything else until they're standing just inside the doors, waiting for their ride.

"I really could have gotten it," he says quietly.

"I know," Zevran says, bumping his shoulder.

"It's not like I spend money on anything else." He shrugs, embarrassed. "I'm kind of boring. Not like you."

"Boring is not the word I would use to describe the last two days," Zevran says.

"Okay, true, but this isn't usually my life."

"Boring is also not the word I would use to describe the Wardens."

"I manage to do it," Alistair mutters. Then he sighs. "Sorry, I'm whining. And being ungrateful." He hefts the bags in one hand. "Thank you."

Zevran shifts all of his own bags to one hand, ignoring the way the plastic cuts into his fingers, and uses his now-free hand to pull Alistair's head down for a quick kiss. "I accept repayment in sexual favors."

Alistair smiles reluctantly. "What's the interest rate on that loan?"

"Very reasonable." Zevran kisses him again, lingering long enough that the security guard behind them clears his throat pointedly. Public indecency. Right.

Alistair's face is now brilliantly red, but somehow, it gets even redder when Zevran adds, "I promise, you'll find it quite interesting."

His face stays red most of the way back to his apartment. Every time the blush starts to fade, he glances over at Zevran and flushes again. Watching this from the corner of one eye, Zevran has to bite back a smile.

They've dropped the bags at his apartment and are halfway to the grocery store before he's back to normal, and Zevran manages to make him blush again five minutes after they walk into the store. He slips away while Alistair is frowning at the shampoo and comes back with a bottle of lube, which he tosses casually into the cart.

At the noise, Alistair turns to look and immediately goes red again. His gaze moves from the bottle to Zevran's groin, then snaps quickly up to his face, and Zevran grins. No reminder necessary, it seems.

"Just thinking about collecting my interest," Zevran says cheerfully, then waves a hand at the wall of shampoo. "Have you decided?"

Alistair grabs a bottle seemingly at random and tosses it into the cart. "Yeah, good, what's next on the list?"

"In a hurry?" Zevran asks.

Alistair looks up and down the empty aisle, then advances on Zevran. There's no other word for it: it's predatory and focused, and it stirs heat in the pit of Zevran's stomach as Alistair boxes him in against the shopping cart.

"Yeah," Alistair says, mouth almost touching Zevran's. "Yeah, I might be in a little bit of a hurry."

"Good," Zevran says, stretching up to close the distance for a quick kiss. "Because I would hate to think I was alone in that. Shall I tell you what I plan to do, once we've finished here?"

Alistair's pupils are wide and black, and he licks his lips before he says in a husky voice, "Tell me your favorite."

Oh, fuck. Zevran is hard, and it hurts, his cock pressing against his zipper without anything in between his skin and the metal. Rather than do something smart, like call a stop to this, he drags Alistair's head down so he can whisper in his ear, "A favorite, hm? That's a difficult question, my friend, but I can tell you where I would start."

Before he can, though, there's the distinctive rattle of a shopping cart, and Alistair takes a hasty step back. He looks guilty, like a teenager caught jerking off, and it makes Zevran grin.

Alistair catches the expression and flips him off, shielding his hand with his body to hide it from the family now coming down the aisle toward them. "Fuck you," he mouths silently.

"I certainly hope so," Zevran says, not bothering to keep his voice down, and while Alistair is spluttering over that, he adds, "Cereal. The next thing on the list is cereal."

###

Zevran can't remember the last time he saw someone buy so much food so fast. It's a good thing it's early afternoon in the middle of the week, because if the aisles were crowded, Alistair might actually be a hazard.

As it is, they're manhandling another full cart up to another cashier less than two hours after they finished with the first one. Alistair doesn't let him get away with paying this time, narrowing his eyes meaningfully when Zevran reaches for his wallet, and Zevran doesn't fight him on it. He understands pride, not to mention the difference between helping a friend and making that friend feel like they're in debt to him.

By the time they get back to Alistair's apartment for the second time, Alistair is watching him hungrily, and Zevran knows it doesn't have anything to do with missing lunch. Because he's a bad man, he sidesteps Alistair's attempt to pin him against the front door and holds up the bags of groceries to ward him off.

"Your ice cream will melt!"

Alistair mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, "Fuck the ice cream," but Zevran pretends not to hear him.

Zevran does his best to drag out the process of putting away the groceries, arranging everything in the fridge and freezer just so. From there, he moves on to re-organizing Alistair's pantry, alphabetizing the canned fruit and vegetables.

"What in the Maker's name are you doing?" Alistair demands.

"Organizing," he says with a straight face, weighing a can of green beans in his hand. "So you can find what you want when you want it."

Alistair closes the distance between them to take the can away and set it very gently on the counter. "I know what I want right now."

"Do you?" Zevran murmurs. "And what would that be?"

For an answer, Alistair picks him up bodily, hands under his thighs, and kisses him. Zevran is happy to cooperate, licking into Alistair's mouth and wrapping both arms around his neck. The hands on his thighs tighten, fingers digging in almost to the point of pain, and Zevran groans into the kiss.

The advantage to a small apartment is that it's only a few steps from the kitchen to the bed. Alistair tosses Zevran onto the mattress and is grabbing for his shoes before he's even done bouncing. Shoes, jeans, and shirt go flying, Zevran laughing as he "helps" by trying to drag Alistair down for another kiss and Alistair so focused that he's frowning in concentration.

He makes a triumphant noise when he finally peels Zevran out of his shirt, blinking in surprise when Zevran holds up a hand to stop him from climbing onto the bed.

"One of us," Zevran says pointedly, "is still wearing clothes."

"What?" he asks, looking at Zevran, and only when Zevran laughs does he look down at himself. He flushes, but he's also laughing, hands reaching for the hem of his t-shirt as he toes out of his shoes.

"All your fault," he says, voice muffled by his t-shirt.

"Entirely," Zevran agrees, leaning back on his elbows to smirk up at Alistair. "And did you plan to do something about it?"

Alistair's head pops free of his t-shirt, his mouth open on a reply that gets lost as his eyes track over Zevran's body. Whatever he'd planned to say, all that comes out of his mouth is a slightly breathless, "Yeah."

"So glad to hear it," Zevran says. "But you may find that easier if you take off your jeans."

If Alistair hears him, he doesn't give any sign as he kneels on the bed and then proceeds to crawl up it. He doesn't look away until he's leaning down for a kiss and he has to close his eyes.

This kiss isn't like the ones from this morning. It's rough and hungry, open-mouthed--when Alistair's teeth aren't worrying at Zevran's bottom lip--and Zevran groans his approval, tangling one hand in Alistair's hair to make the kiss even rougher. His lips are stinging, and he can feel the imprint of every bite, and he wants more.

More is easy to get. With his free hand, he deftly unbuttons and unzips Alistair's jeans so he can wrap his fingers around Alistair's cock. It's already hard, and Zevran strokes it, fist tight.

Alistair breaks the kiss on a gasped, "Oh, fuck." His eyes are still closed, his lips parted, and the flush on his face has nothing to do with embarrassment now.

Zevran takes advantage of his distraction to flip them over and slide down Alistair's body, shoving the jeans out of the way as he goes. All his attention is on his goal, none left over to even place a few strategic kisses or bites. The second he's kicked the jeans off the side of the bed, he wraps his lips around Alistair's cock, intent on seeing how many different noises he can get Alistair to make.

Except Alistair goes completely silent and still.

Startled, Zevran straightens enough to look up and take his mouth off Alistair's cock. The look he's getting in return is wide-eyed and startled, and Zevran blinks back, confused. After a second, he starts, "If you don't-"

"I do," Alistair interrupts. He moves at last, propping himself up on one elbow and reaching out with the other hand to push Zevran's hair back from his face. "If...if you do. Because you don't have to."

"I don't recall anyone saying anything about 'have to,'" Zevran says, smiling even as his brain is working overtime trying to figure out where they jumped the rails. "Did you 'have to' this morning?"

"No!" The protest is immediate. "No, of course not, I wanted to, I want to," he looks away, embarrassed, "I really want to, but I know some people don't...not everybody likes to...ummm..."

A suspicion floats to the top of Zevran's thoughts, and now he's feeling murderous again. Which isn't the mood he wants to be in, and embarrassed is definitely not the mood he wants Alistair in.

Compartmentalization has always been a life skill for Zevran, and he takes advantage of that now. All the horrible things he wants to do to Alistair's ex get walled off to one side, and he smirks up at Alistair. "Believe me," he says in a low voice, "I want to."

Holding eye contact, he wraps his hand lightly around Alistair's cock, just enough pressure to guide it to his lips so he can kiss the tip. He turns his head to brush his cheek against it and adds, "I wanted to, this morning. I want to do everything you like."

"Everything?" Alistair asks, both amused and skeptical.

Zevran smiles a challenge. "Do you really think you can ask for anything I have never done?"

"No," Alistair says, serious again. "But I can ask for things you don't like.'

"So?" Zevran asks with a shrug. "So you ask, and I say no." Privately, he thinks the chances of that happening are somewhere between slim and none, but that isn't really the point. "And whatever you ask for, I promise I will never laugh, or think less of you."

Only after the words are out does he realize he's making two promises, not one: "never" isn't a word for one-night stands, or whatever it is they're doing. It's meaningless if there isn't a time after this.

Zevran draws a hasty mental line around that, too. Those aren't just thoughts for another time; those are thoughts that lead directly to things he doesn't let himself want. They're not thoughts for later, they're thoughts for never.

The word is much more appropriate there, whatever the argumentative voice in his head tries to say before he shuts it down.

Fortunately, Alistair doesn't seem to have heard the implied promise, possibly because he's been lost in his own thoughts. His mouth is twisted in a self-mocking smile, and he says, "I'm the only guy in the world who freaks out at getting a blowjob, aren't I?"

Zevran snorts. "Hardly."

Alistair's eyebrows go up, almost to his hairline. "Really." His tone is too flat for it to be a question.

"I'll grant it isn't the typical reaction," Zevran says, "but...yes, really." Alistair's cock isn't even half hard now. Zevran strokes his thumb over the head, once, gently, before letting go so he can brace his forearms across Alistair's thighs and smile winningly. "Regardless, if it isn't what you want, what would you like instead?"

"I do want it," Alistair whispers. His fingers brush over Zevran's lips, tracing the top and then the bottom one. "Please."

Zevran's smile widens. "I would say, 'The pleasure is all mine,' but I certainly hope that won't be true."

Alistair laughs, the sound melting into a surprised groan when Zevran sucks...not his cock but his balls. Carefully--so carefully--Zevran holds them in his mouth, runs his tongue over the underside and traces the faint ridge of skin between them. He sucks just hard enough to tug without hurting, listening to Alistair's breathing to gauge how far he can go and then easing back from that limit by a fraction of an inch.

When Alistair's cock begins to show a renewed interest in the proceedings, Zevran wraps a loose hand around it to stroke it idly. He's not in any rush, and he's enjoying the noises Alistair is making, and he intends to take it as a personal challenge to see exactly how long he can draw this all out. How slowly can he take Alistair to the edge without leaving him the wrong sort of frustrated, and once he's there, how long can he stay there? How long can Zevran keep him there?

So Zevran teases, uses his mouth and his hands to get Alistair's cock all the way to hard and then barely touches it. Instead, he kisses the arch of Alistair's hip bones, bites the insides of his thighs, scrapes fingernails over his stomach. That last gets a moan, and Zevran immediately takes note, digging his nails in deeper next time, searching once again for the line between pleasure and pain. Once he's found it, he takes great delight in dancing right up to it before retreating to light touches with just the pads of his fingers.

Alistair's stomach and thighs are covered in pink lines by the time Zevran tires of the game and sucks gently on the head of his cock. It's the first time in what must feel like hours, and Alistair's hips jerk, an aborted thrust that makes Zevran smile.

"Sorry," Alistair gasps out.

Zevran thinks about telling him that he doesn't need to stop himself, then decides that's more likely to derail them again. Next time-

No. No next time. No "never." Today, and nothing else.

Living in the moment is a skill Zevran mastered right along with compartmentalizing, and he buries himself in this moment. In Alistair's cock against his tongue, and the marks of his nails across Alistair's skin, and the soft, almost-moan in every breath Alistair takes.

He's still not hurrying, letting his mouth slide down Alistair's cock at the slowest pace he can manage, lifting up to run his tongue over the slit and under the head before going down again, half an inch further than last time. His eyes are closed, the better to concentrate on the subtle and not-so-subtle clues Alistair is giving him, and the parts of his brain not taken up with that are focused almost entirely on his own body, on how much he wants to free one hand to stroke himself.

Something touches the corner of his mouth, and his eyes snap open. Alistair is up on an elbow again, his other hand stretched out so he can trace the line where Zevran's mouth circles his cock. His index finger follows the curve of Zevran's upper lip from one corner to the other and back again, and for a second, Zevran is transfixed. That light, almost glancing touch demands all of his attention, every nerve in his body suddenly connected to his mouth.

While he's still recovering from the jolt, Alistair's hand leaves his mouth and follows the line of the tattoo across his cheek to comb through his hair, gathering it up and away from his face. The slight tug at his scalp reminds him what he's supposed to be doing, and he closes his eyes again. This time, he goes all the way down, all at once, needing to do something to make Alistair stop looking at him like that. He needs to be back in control in the ways that matter. He'll let Alistair fuck his mouth--he'll enjoy Alistair fucking his mouth--so long as it means Alistair isn't watching him like this is anything more than a few hours of fun for both of them.

Because that's all it is, and Zevran once again squashes that argumentative part of his brain.

Alistair, however, missed the briefing about what he's supposed to be doing. He keeps his hand tangled in Zevran's hair, but he doesn't do anything with it. He doesn't try to steer, or change Zevran's pace, or anything.

Curious, Zevran opens his eyes again and aims an inquisitive look Alistair's way. Before he can raise his head to ask, Alistair flushes a little and says, "Your hair. It was, um, in the way. And I want to see."

Ah.

Zevran sits back enough to gather his hair in both hands and twist all of it together into a messy knot at the back of his skull, a tangle he can hold in place with one hand. He doesn't need to explain: Alistair's eyes are wide, but he wraps his own hand carefully around the knot of hair, leaving Zevran with both hands free.

Now that he knows he's playing to an audience, he plays it for all it's worth, angling his head to give Alistair a good view and using his hands only to support his weight. He goes slower but deeper, letting Alistair's cock hit the back of his throat on every stroke and lifting up until the head is just resting on his lower lip.

He's got a good rhythm going, the fingers in his hair tightening, when Alistair breathes out, "Fuck me." It isn't until he says it again that Zevran realizes he isn't swearing, he's making a request. Alistair's face is going red with embarrassment, and Zevran thinks they really need to work on refining his definition of things worth blushing over.

Well, someone does. Not Zevran, of course, because Zevran won't be around that long, but _someone_ needs to do it. And why is his brain intent on sabotaging him today? As if he doesn't have better things to do than question choices he hasn't wanted to question in years.

Zevran draws yet another mental line around yet another issue, because he does have better things to do. Better things to do _right now_.

Such as Alistair. Right.

There's a brief, awkward scramble for the lube--still in its grocery bag--that leaves both of them laughing. Alistair stops laughing when Zevran shoves at his hip, encouraging him to roll over. He winds up face down in the pillows, ass in the air and knees spread wide enough to compensate for the difference in their heights. His hands are fisted in his hair, knuckles white.

Kneeling behind him, unopened bottle of lube in one hand, Zevran considers those white knuckles and asks casually, "Have you done this before?"

Alistair turns his head to the side to say, "It's been a while." It sounds like an apology, but then he adds in a completely different voice, "Please. I've done it before, it's just been a while, and I really want..." The cheek Zevran can see is beet red, and Alistair has to gulp in air before he can finish in a rush, "I really want you to fuck me."

"Far be it from me to deny you," Zevran murmurs, already re-arranging his mental plan.

The mattress shifts under his weight as he leans over to set the lube on the floor, just under the edge of the bed where he won't have to worry about chasing it down later. As he straightens, Alistair cranes his neck around, and says, "I'm serious, I-"

"Have a little patience," Zevran says, mock severe.

Alistair gives him a confused look that melts into shock when Zevran cups the cheeks of his ass and spreads them wide. "You don't-"

Rather than let Alistair tell him another thing he doesn't "have" to do, Zevran licks the base of his spine, right at the top of his ass. The rest of Alistair's sentence turns into gibberish.

"You were saying?" Zevran asks innocently.

Alistair mumbles something into the pillow his face is now buried in. It's impossible to make out any actual words, which means Zevran is free to interpret the sounds however he wants.

"Again?" he asks, as if he's repeating what Alistair said. "For you, dulce mio, anything."

He licks the same spot as before, lightly this time, moving his tongue against the grain of the fine hairs growing there. Under his hands, Alistair's muscles twitch, then twitch again when Zevran blows across the damp skin.

"Like that?" he asks, his lips brushing against Alistair's skin. "Or perhaps like this."

Lower this time, spreading Alistair open with his thumbs, the faint taste of salt-sweat on his tongue as he works his way down. Alistair is still talking, but since he also still hasn't raised his face out of the pillow, he could be saying pretty much anything.

He stops talking when Zevran licks across his hole, words disappearing in a gasped breath that's audible even through several inches of cotton batting. It makes Zevran smile, pleased with himself, before he concentrates on getting Alistair to make the same sound again.

This time, Alistair stops breathing, and Zevran doesn't give him a chance to recover. He uses just his mouth for now, moving his hands only when he needs a better grip. Which is often, because Alistair is squirming under him, shifting and tensing every time Zevran's mouth touches him. It doesn't matter if it's the tip of Zevran's tongue at the base of his spine, or Zevran's teeth scraping red marks into his ass. Both make him shake, shoulders heaving with each breath, and when Zevran finally fucks him, tongue pushing into him, he gives a shaking groan that's as good as a hand on Zevran's cock.

Zevran gives him a moment to recover, then does it again, and again, and again, until Alistair finally manages to lift his face out of the pillow long enough to gasp out, "Please!"

"Please what?" Zevran asks, pressing a kiss to the small of his back. "Am I doing something wrong?"

Alistair's face is back down in the pillow, and it looks like an effort of will to raise it again. "Please fuck me."

"I thought I was," Zevran says. While Alistair is still trying to form a coherent response, Zevran licks his thumb and fucks Alistair with that instead. "Or did you mean like that?"

Alistair shakes his head vehemently, but he's speechless for now.

Zevran presses his thumb deeper, fingers stroking Alistair's balls. "Is this not what you wanted?"

Another headshake, followed by a nod, followed by another headshake, as if Alistair can't even remember the question he's supposed to be answering. His hips are rocking back against Zevran's hand, though, fucking himself as best he can.

Careful not to twist the hand teasing Alistair, Zevran leans sideways to pick the lube back up. He gets it open without too much one-handed fumbling and pours lube over the fingers of his free hand, not caring that he's making a mess of the sheets. They'll be a bigger mess before he's done with Alistair.

He goes back to teasing for a while, rubbing his slick fingers around Alistair's hole, occasionally sliding one in alongside his thumb for a couple strokes before withdrawing it again. Watching Alistair fuck himself is mesmerizing, and Zevran is happy to lose track of time like this.

Up until Alistair drags his face out of the pillow one more time and says, pronouncing each word with all the care of the very drunk, "Fuck me with your cock." He sucks in a deep breath, then adds, "Now." Another deep breath. "Please."

The "please" makes Zevran grin. "Oh, was that what you wanted?" The lube is resting against his calf, in easy reach, and Zevran pours a liberal amount into his hand. As he strokes it over his cock, deliberately making it sound as obscene as possible, he says casually, "You only had to ask."

Alistair makes a protesting noise that turns low and guttural when Zevran's cock pushes into him. His head thumps back down to the pillow, his hands clutching at the sheets as his back bows.

If watching his fingers working Alistair's ass was hot, then watching his cock slide in one slow inch at a time is breath-taking in its intensity. Electricity pings through him, and it's only long years of experience that hold him to that slow pace. Experience, and the desire to draw this out, to wring every possible bit of pleasure from the moment.

When he can't go any deeper, he takes a second to catch his breath, rubbing a hand over Alistair's back to soothe the fine tremors running through him. "All right, dulce mio?"

The answer is wordless but unmistakably an affirmative.

Zevran rolls his hips, a small thrust that makes Alistair whimper. "Oh, you are beautiful," he murmurs, running his thumb up the length of Alistair's spine. The back of Alistair's neck turns red, and Zevran smiles. "You are," he says. "Perfection."

Under his hands, Alistair is still trembling, but he shakes his head firmly.

"Well," Zevran says, drawing out the word. "Perhaps not _quite_ perfect." He leans forward to get his mouth as close to Alistair's ear as possible given the difference in their heights. "Let me see you touch yourself. _That_ would make it perfect."

Alistair doesn't lift his head, just tips his chin down so he can talk clearly. "Not now," he says, breathless and almost stumbling over his words. "I don't...I want...please fuck me, as long as you want, I want to last-"

Zevran pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in, and Alistair groans, high and sharp.

"-oh Maker, oh fuck, oh please fuck me, I can't come like this, I can't, and I don't want to, I want you to fuck me, you feel so good, just keep going, please don't stop, please fuck me..."

The words stab heat through Zevran's whole body, almost as intense as an orgasm but briefer, a blinding second of pure pleasure before he claws his way back to some semblance of control. Alistair's babbling has dissolved into incoherence, his head slipping back so his face is buried in the pillow again.

"Shhh," Zevran whispers against the back of his shoulder. "Shhh, sweet, I will, I promise. All afternoon, all night, as long as you want." He presses a kiss between Alistair's shoulder blades. "I can wait however long you want, and when you're ready to be done, you can stroke yourself while I fuck you." Another kiss to the same spot, the words breathed into Alistair's skin. "Because that is what I want, to feel you come apart, to hear you at the end when you beg your Maker to let you finish."

Alistair's arms are wrapped under and around the pillow now, holding it tight against his face, and Zevran would worry about the risk of suffocation, except that he can feel every one of Alistair's shuddering breaths in his own chest.

The position feels good and right, wrapped around Alistair like this, breathing together, but it doesn't give Zevran as much control and so eventually he straightens, gripping Alistair's hips tightly. One careful breath to remind his body who's in charge here, then he starts to move.

He closes off his awareness of his own body and focuses on Alistair instead, on the shifting and bunching of the muscles in his back, on the moans and muffled curses that make it through the pillow, on his hips rolling back to meet Zevran's thrusts. Thrusts that he varies over time, attentive to Alistair's reactions, searching for the right combination of fast or slow, deep or shallow, changing every time he senses Alistair getting used to one.

At some point, Alistair's hands abandon the pillow to clutch at his hair again, knuckles going white. Unlike the last time, Zevran is more turned on than concerned by it, and he picks up his pace until he's fucking Alistair hard and deep. Sweat is running down his spine, and keeping control over the heat in his own gut is almost painful. It's inching from want to need, and every time Alistair makes a sound, it tests Zevran's control a little more.

Alistair's right arm spasms, his hand opening as his elbow tucks in against his side, then his hand snaps back to where it was, holding on to his hair like it's all that's keeping him from drowning. After a second, Zevran realizes what that was: Alistair starting to reach for his cock to jerk himself off, only to stop halfway. His body trying to take control from his brain. Gratifying to know he's having as much trouble as Zevran, but also deeply distracting, because now Zevran can't stop thinking about Alistair with a hand around his cock.

It happens again maybe thirty seconds later, Alistair's hand moving down until he regains control and brings it back up to grab another handful of hair. This time, he presses his left hand over his right, like he needs the extra help to keep it where he wants it.

Zevran exhales like he's been punched. He closes his eyes, but that image is burned into his brain, Alistair at the limit of his control but still trying. Worse, he can feel every time Alistair jerks, and his brain is only too happy to replay that video again, an endless loop that is definitely _not helping_.

No telling how long it goes on like that, both of them fighting for control, then Alistair makes a small, helpless noise as his weight shifts. Zevran doesn't need to open his eyes to know what's happening, not when Alistair's whole body shudders as his voice breaks on, "Oh holy Maker."

The words are crystal clear despite the way they crack in the middle, and that does make Zevran open his eyes to see what's happening. Alistair has one hand around his cock, the other braced against the wall, and his head is now turned to the side, giving Zevran a three-quarters view of his face. Alistair is looking back at him, and when their eyes meet, his lips part slightly.

It looks awkward, and Zevran reaches out to touch his cheek. "I have you." He presses his fingers more firmly against Alistair's jaw, turning his face back toward the pillow.

Alistair tips his chin up to evade him. "You said you wanted to hear."

For a second, Zevran has no idea what he's talking about, then it clicks. Bemused, he runs a finger along the line of Alistair's jaw, watches his throat bob as he swallows. Zevran has always enjoyed the sound of a lover enjoying themselves, but he hadn't really expected--or needed--Alistair to remember what he'd said. He'd been trying to turn Alistair on, not make a request.

Zevran bends down to rest his cheek between Alistair's shoulder blades. That the movement hides his face is just an added bonus. "Yes, dulce mio, let me hear you."

He braces his own hand on the wall just above Alistair's and reaches the other one down to brush his fingers over the head of Alistair's cock, smiling at the whine it elicits. All the heat that's been building in his gut is burning its way out, up through his chest until he feels like he might explode. Alistair's heart is thudding in his ear, bassline to his voice, higher pitched and cracking on every other word.

It's the best music Zevran's ever heard.

Alistair's hand on his cock is moving faster, and Zevran shuts his eyes, the better to concentrate. Hand back on Alistair's hip, guiding and controlling, he keeps his thrusts slow, his movements small, pulling out only a little before pushing back in. Alistair is mostly incoherent now, an occasional "oh fuck" or "Maker!" all Zevran can pick out of the garbled sounds, and he's so fucking close, right on the edge but holding himself back, wait wait wait-

Alistair stops breathing, his whole body rigid and shaking, squeezing around Zevran's cock. All Zevran can think is "Oh thank the Maker" and he doesn't even _believe_ in the Maker and it doesn't matter one fucking bit because he can finally let go, finally thrust one more time, deep as he can, and let the heat burn him up.

It feels like he comes forever, spasm after spasm wracking his body, Alistair pressed so close that every twitch runs through Zevran, too. He can't think, can't see, can't hear, can only feel Alistair falling apart with him until they're both nothing but gasping wrecks, almost too dizzy to stay upright.

The skin under Zevran's cheek is sweaty, but the effort required to straighten up isn't worth it. Besides, Alistair smells good, like sex but also like himself, and Zevran nuzzles the back of his shoulder without really thinking about it.

Alistair makes a noise somewhere between a hum and a purr, arching his back so they're pressed together the entire length of Zevran's body. It feels good, maybe more good than Zevran should allow himself, but pulling away now would only hurt Alistair's feelings. Right? Right.

Which is of course the only reason that, after they do finally pull apart, he allows Alistair to pull him into a hug, that somehow becomes full-out snuggling, that somehow becomes a sort-of nap, Zevran drifting warm and content in a place where he doesn't have to think about anything at all.


	4. Chapter 4

They do eventually have to get up, and as sweaty as they are, the shower is the first stop. Standing under the spray, Alistair's back to him, Zevran smirks to himself and steps close enough to wrap his arms around Alistair. His plan is to tease, to stroke soapy fingers over Alistair's cock, but he never makes it that far. Pressed against Alistair like this, his hand forgets what it's supposed to be doing and goes up instead of down, stopping over Alistair's heart.

"Hey," Alistair says, sounding surprised. He pulls away long enough to turn around, then he cups Zevran's cheeks in both hands to tilt his face up for a soft kiss.

It feels good in a way Zevran isn't used to. Not sexual, just warm. Much the way it felt napping against Alistair earlier.

The cold part of his brain, the part formed entirely by Crow training, is yelling at him to back away _now_. He ignores it and puts his hands over top of Alistair's, tilting his head back in a broad hint that Alistair catches immediately, leaning down for another kiss. Without conscious thought, one of his hands moves to the back of Alistair's neck. Touching, not holding, a way to say "don't stop" without having to actually say it.

In the end, Alistair is the one who pulls away first. "The hot water doesn't really last that long," he says apologetically.

Zevran turns his face into Alistair's hand, kissing the palm and smiling. "Later, then?"

"Yeah," Alistair breathes out, and when Zevran looks up at him, he looks both pleased and startled. He turns away and reaches for the soap, but the hand Zevran kissed curls briefly into a fist, fingers pressing hard against the palm.

###

One late lunch, two trips to the laundry room, and a lot of gratuitous kissing later, they're back in the main room of Alistair's apartment, surveying the remaining mess they didn't get to yesterday. In some ways, it's more of a mess than it was before they started: to make paths through it, they shoved a lot of stuff to the side, focused on other areas of the apartment first. Now they're faced with a tangled pile of broken furniture, wrecked clothing, and torn paper.

"This is going to suck, isn't it?" Alistair asks, staring at the largest pile. He looks pissed off, and Zevran is glad. Better pissed off than beaten down.

"If you ask nicely, perhaps I will," Zevran says archly.

Alistair blinks at him in confusion, then his mouth quirks in a faint smile. "Is that like getting a lollipop for being good at the doctor's office?"

"I," Zevran says, mock offended, "am far superior to a lollipop."

To his surprise--and why is he surprised?--Alistair leans down to kiss him again. "You are," he agrees, smiling.

To hide his confusion, he pats Alistair on the cheek and smiles back. "Then we'd best be getting on with it, yes?"

Alistair sighs and looks around. "There, I guess?" he asks, pointing at a seemingly-random pile.

It's as good a place as any to start, so Zevran kneels beside it and begins triaging the mess. Much of it is the sad remains of the bookcase: broken pressboard waiting to scratch his hands and scattered shelf pegs waiting to bite him if he puts a knee down on one. Including a few that are now painted to the carpet.

He's poking at one of those, trying to decide if it's worth the hassle to cut free, when Alistair kneels beside him, and, without looking at him, says, "Thank you."

Zevran waves it away. "I promised my help, and I can't leave the task half finished, can I?"

"Lots of people would," Alistair says.

"But as we have previously discussed, I am exceptional."

Alistair snorts a laugh and bumps his shoulder against Zevran's. "Yeah, you are. Luckily for me."

There's real affection in his voice, and Zevran doesn't quite know what to do with it. Easier to smile his most charming smile and say, "Everyone graced with my presence is lucky."

Alistair laughs outright at that. "Why do I think there are people who might not agree?"

Zevran sniffs disdainfully. "No living ones."

The second the words are out, he winces internally. Jokes about killing people aren't the kind of thing everyone finds funny.

But Alistair keeps laughing, and Zevran is reminded that he's a soldier, if an odd one. Jokes about sex or death are pretty much a guaranteed laugh with soldiers.

They lapse into a comfortable silence, sorting the utterly trashed from the potentially salvageable. Most of it falls into the former category, but they save a few things, and not just scraps of pictures: a few shirts that escaped both scissors and paint, a couple intact books protected by broken shelves, and a small statue of a demon that raises both Zevran's eyebrows.

"A gift from a friend," Alistair says, taking it from him with a sad smile. "I'm glad it survived."

There's a story behind the sadness in Alistair's smile, but Zevran lets it lie. Alistair doesn't need something else to stress over today.

So they work, and gradually, the pile of picture scraps grows larger and the pile of broken furniture grows smaller. It takes more trips to the dumpster than Zevran cares to count, but by dinnertime, the floor is cleared of all trash, even if the paint remains.

"I could try to scrub it out," Alistair says dubiously, prodding it with a toe.

"You could try," Zevran says, equally dubious.

"Or I could say fuck it and accept that I just lost my security deposit." He scowls at the carpet and mutters, "Asshole."

As much as Zevran would rather see him pissed than sad, neither emotion is productive right now. "Shall we work on the pictures?" he asks instead.

Alistair looks at the pictures now stacked loosely in the middle of the floor. "You don't have to help, you know. You've already done way more than you had to."

It occurs to Zevran that all these offers to let him off the hook could be because Alistair wants him to go. The thought is unpleasant, and even more unpleasant because fuck it, he's not supposed to care. "I can certainly leave you in peace if you wish," he begins, only to cut himself off when Alistair shakes his head hard.

"No, it's not that." Alistair is studying the floor so intently he might as well just stare at Zevran. "I appreciate all your help, I really do, and if you want to stay, that would be great, but it's a lot to ask, and I know it." He glares at the pictures. "For the love of Andraste, you've been here two whole days! It's not nice or right or...or...or fair for me to ask you to blow more time on a mess you didn't make."

"A mess you didn't make, either," Zevran points out.

"Yeah, but it's my apartment." He shrugs a shoulder awkwardly. "And I guess in a way I did make it. I mean, I decided to date him, ri-"

"No," Zevran says, voice sharper than he meant it to be. "No, you did not make this mess, and you are in no way responsible for it. You chose to love someone."

Alistair flinches at the word love, and Zevran stuffs his hands in his pockets to stop himself from reaching out. Love isn't an emotion Alistair has admitted to in the few times he's talked about his ex, but Zevran has spent his life studying people.

And he knows all about loving someone who repays that love with pain.

"You did not choose to let him treat you like this," Zevran finishes quietly.

"I know," Alistair says. "I just...sometimes it's hard to remember."

"Well, then," Zevran says with a smile he doesn't feel, "it will be my job to remind you."

Alistair gives him an odd look from the corner of one eye, but all he says is, "Okay."

The silence that follows is heavy, uncomfortable the way their silences haven't been up to now. Zevran hates it, and hates Alistair's ex just a little bit more.

"Pictures?" he says, rather than ranting at Alistair, who doesn't deserve it.

"Pictures," Alistair agrees.

###

They order takeout and sit cross-legged on the floor with the haphazard stacks of pictures between them. Zevran works on the bigger pieces, the ones he can fit together like a puzzle without having any idea who these people are. The smaller pieces he leaves for Alistair, though he occasionally snags one when he recognizes it as the missing corner for one he saw before. Once the pieces are all together, he slides them into an envelope and begins on the next.

Not everything can be salvaged, of course, but they get far more than Zevran would have expected. He suspects that what's saving them is a short attention span, that Alistair's ex got bored before he finished completely destroying the pictures.

 _Yay for boredom,_ Zevran thinks sardonically as he slides the pieces for another picture into their envelope.

After the first half dozen, assembled in that heavy, awkward silence, Zevran begins to prod Alistair for the stories behind each recovered picture. It's as awkward as the silence at first, Alistair obviously distracted by the magnitude of their task, but he gets in the swing of things eventually. It helps that Zevran has always been good at names and faces, and so he's able to prompt Alistair after only a few pictures. "Is this at Wynne's birthday party?" and "Why is Cullen doing handstands?" and "Who is that, kissing Morrigan?"

They've been working for a couple hours when he finds a picture of a dwarven woman he hasn't seen in any of the other pictures. She's standing hipshot and cocky, a rifle over one shoulder and her helmet pushed back on her head so she can grin up at the camera. Beside her, Alistair has been caught mid laugh, his eyes scrunched closed and his mouth open, one arm around his ribs.

The current-day Alistair doesn't laugh when he sees it, though. His mouth compresses and he gives a small, sharp shake of his head. "Aeducan," he says, and his tone doesn't invite questions.

Zevran sets that picture aside, unsure from Alistair's tone if he even wants to keep it. Now doesn't seem like the time to ask.

The next picture is easy, at least, a photo of people Zevran has already heard stories about, and it's only missing a corner. The tear doesn't even cut across anyone's face. It makes the perfect distraction, and Alistair shoots him a quick, grateful look.

It's getting late, dinner nothing but a distant memory, when Alistair gets up to use the bathroom. Zevran acknowledges his "Be right back" with a distracted hum, most of his attention on the picture in front of him. He has almost all the pieces, and while the pile of fragments is still intimidatingly large, it's easier to sift through now than it was four hours ago.

The picture he's working on now is a group shot, which only sort of helps in the reassembly process, and Zevran doesn't recognize half the people in it, which definitely doesn't help at all. They're in uniform, too, with Warden unit patches on their shoulders, which means clothing isn't giving him any clues. He's so focused on matching up legs and shoulders and booted feet that he's only vaguely aware of Alistair returning from the bathroom until he says, "That was my first unit."

Zevran barely controls a jerk of surprise. "And that explains why I thought you might be too young to drive when the picture was taken." He's mostly teasing, but Alistair's beaming face looks like it belongs to someone way too young to be wearing a combat vest and carrying a rifle.

"I was nineteen," Alistair says, sounding forlorn.

One of the faces Zevran recognizes is the mysterious Aeducan, but he's just as curious about the older man standing with his arm slung around Alistair's shoulders. Curious or not, he's about to sweep all the pieces together to put them away when Alistair crouches down to put a hand over his.

"My first unit," Alistair says again. Zevran can't read his tone this time, and he's almost afraid to look at Alistair's face.

"You look happy," Zevran ventures.

"I was." Alistair touches Aeducan's face and uses his chin to indicate the demon statue now sitting in lonely splendor on the kitchen table. "That was from her."

Ah. Like the physical photograph, Zevran is starting to put the pieces in his head together to form a coherent whole. "You were close."

"Yeah. She was...she was something else. Some people just have a knack for leading, you know?"

"I know." He also knows that having a knack for leading doesn't make someone a _good_ leader.

"She marched us into hell," Alistair says. The sadness in his voice is tinged with affection now. "More than once, Maker save me, but she always marched with us, and she always marched us back out."

Zevran rubs Alistair's knee, the only way he can think to lend support.

"She died," Alistair says simply. His thumb skims over the picture, touching her face like he's imagining touching a flesh-and-blood person. "I miss her. She'd have seen right through Co‑"

He cuts himself off with a quick glance at Zevran, who's already pounced on that half-formed name. Cooper, maybe? As if there aren't thousands of those in Thedas. Probably dozens just in Denerim. As clues go, it's not much; it's as likely to be a first name as a last name, after all.

Time for a fishing expedition.

"Who?" Zevran asks, trying to sound nothing more than politely interested.

By the look Alistair gives him, it's not working. "My ex."

"Of course," Zevran says, like it doesn't matter. "I just wondered about his name."

"I'm not telling you his name," Alistair says firmly. "I've known too many Crows, and he might be an asshole, but I don't want him dead."

"You think I want to kill him?" Zevran says with a startled laugh, as if that wasn't exactly what he was thinking about.

Alistair's shoulders hunch, and he flushes. "Okay, never mind, sorry. That was a stupid thing to say when you don't even know him. Why would you-" He coughs and makes a point of digging through the pile of picture scraps. "Anyway, yeah, I just don't like to talk about him."

It's impossible to say for sure, but Zevran suspects he knows what Alistair is thinking: that it's arrogant to assume Zevran would care enough to kill someone just because they hurt Alistair.

Since Alistair chose not to say it, Zevran is free to ignore it. He can let the conversation move on and not have to admit to anything, which would definitely be the Crow-approved option.

Fuck them.

Without looking at Alistair, Zevran says quietly, "Perhaps not so stupid as all that. I would hurt him for you, if you asked." He hesitates, heart beating too fast, then rests his head on Alistair's shoulder and lets himself add, "I _want_ to hurt him for you."

"And you wonder why I won't tell you his name."

"You can forgive this so easily?" Zevran asks, flicking his fingers to indicate the room and the mess they've spent the last two days cleaning up.

"Not forgive," Alistair says slowly. He rubs his cheek against Zevran's hair as he thinks. "More like...I've already wasted too much time and energy on him. Why should I let him have anything else?"

Zevran doesn't know what to say to that. It's against all his training to let an attack go unpunished; it says that he's weak, that he can't or won't defend himself, which is just asking to be attacked again. And while he'd be the first to admit that a lot of what the Crows taught him is bullshit, that particular rule has always made sense.

"You have no concerns about this happening again?" Zevran asks after a while.

"If it does, then I'll deal with it," Alistair says. His cheek is still resting on the top of Zevran's head, and when he sighs, it stirs Zevran's hair. "But I don't think it will. He's had the last word, and that's what he wanted."

The first half dozen responses Zevran thinks of are all wildly inappropriate. He finally settles on, "And what do you want?"

"I want him out of my life," Alistair says immediately. "If letting him think he got the last word keeps him away from me, then I'm good with it. I mean, what does it matter what he thinks, if I don't have to deal with him?"

The Crows would approve of that, actually: the mission is what matters, and anything that doesn't affect it isn't worth thinking about. Zevran, however, isn't quite so ready to let it go. "He should have to pay for this."

"He should." The words are calm, but then the shoulder under Zevran's cheek hunches and Alistair's voice changes. "Shit, I'm sorry, I forgot you ended up paying for a lot of this, I can pay you back, or-"

"No," Zevran says emphatically. "He should pay, not you."

"But he's not going to," Alistair says. He turns enough to kiss the top of Zevran's head, shoulders relaxing again. "And if I have to pick between being done with him and getting the money back, I'll take being done with him."

"You could have both," Zevran points out. "You need never see him again."

"And then I'd think about him, every time I saw you," Alistair says. His voice drops almost to a whisper. "I'd like to see you again?"

Zevran presses his cheek harder against Alistair's shoulder and ignores a little more of his training. "I think that can be arranged."

"Then I've got what I want." He laughs weakly. "Besides, maybe I should send him a thank-you note. I'd never have met you if not for him."

"I would be happy to deliver your thanks in person," Zevran says, but he's not serious, not anymore.

"I'll keep you in mind," Alistair says.

###

They return to sorting pictures, and it's a relief to step back from the heavier topics. Much better to tease Alistair about old, grainy baby pictures until he's laughing for real. Much better.

It gets late, and then later, and then it's midnight and they're still sorting pictures. Zevran finishes sliding the most recent picture into its envelope and says reluctantly, "Perhaps we should stop here for tonight."

Alistair stretches, back popping as he leans to the side. "Yeah, probably." He's intent on his stretch, too casual as he says, "Did you want to stay?"

"As charming as I am," Zevran says, "I wouldn't wish to abuse your hospitality."

"It's kinda late," Alistair offers. "And, um, I have an extra toothbrush?"

Zevran looks at his phone as if he doesn't know exactly what time it is and says, "True enough. Would it bother you, if I stayed another night?"

"Not at all!" Alistair says, and Zevran smiles at the eagerness in his voice.

Tonight they're actually awake enough not to fall asleep in their clothes, though Alistair has an attack of shyness that makes Zevran turn away to hide a laugh. "However you're comfortable sleeping," he says with his back turned.

By the time he finishes folding his clothes, Alistair is already under the blankets, no way to tell whether he decided to keep his underwear on. Zevran places a mental bet with himself, a bet he finds out he's lost when he slides into bed and comes chest to chest with a completely naked Alistair.

A completely naked Alistair who isn't shy about pulling Zevran in for a series of slow kisses that don't really go anywhere or do anything except make Zevran's whole body melt. Alistair's cock is right there, but instead of reaching for it, Zevran lets himself be tucked against Alistair's chest, head under Alistair's chin. And why fight it? Alistair is warm, and Zevran does hate being cold.

###

They roll apart in the night, as much as the narrow confines of the bed will allow. When Zevran wakes up, he looks at the neat pile of his clothes and thinks about sneaking out. Not because he wants to, but because it's what a good Crow would do.

Well, he hasn't been a good Crow in a long time. Why go back to it now?

He'd much rather roll over onto his other side and watch Alistair as he sleeps, one hand on his pillow and the other just peeking out from underneath, fingers curled loosely. The blankets have slipped down enough to leave his shoulder bare, the skin pebbled in the chill of the room. Zevran strokes a finger down his arm from shoulder to wrist, and then over the long bones in his hand, drawing careful lines from knuckle to wrist. Any distraction that will let him stay here, warm and half asleep, is a good thing.

Alistair's hand twitches as Zevran finishes with his ring finger, and his eyes blink open. He's obviously still half asleep, but he smiles a slow, sweet smile that Zevran isn't prepared for at all. It steals his breath, and while he's working on that, Alistair's hand turns over to catch his fingers.

"G'morning." His voice is rough, and when he turns his head a little, Zevran can see an entire maze of sheet wrinkles on his cheek. It's like an attack of cute, and Zevran is immune to cute.

At least, he is most days. This morning, it pulls him in, and he lets it.

Alistair's mouth is warm, and he makes a noise that's both surprised and pleased when Zevran kisses him, lips parting the second Zevran touches them with his tongue. Sleepy as he is, the kiss is a little sloppy, a little uncoordinated, but the hand he presses to the back of Zevran's head is firm. Their legs tangle, letting them move closer, Zevran's thigh sliding between Alistair's.

Neither of them is entirely awake, and it makes the whole thing dreamlike. Zevran is as aware of Alistair's steady breathing as he is of Alistair's cock getting hard where it's pressed against his thigh. The short hairs at the base of Alistair's skull are as fascinating as his hand flexing on Zevran's ass. The smell of his skin is as overwhelming as anything he can do with his mouth.

Zevran is dizzy, drowning without a murmur of protest. Maybe Alistair can breathe for both of them. It feels like he already is, like Zevran is getting air from every kiss.

They move together, mouths and hips and hands, and when Zevran has forgotten how to breathe on his own, Alistair slides a hand between them. To Zevran's distant surprise, he doesn't try to jerk them off together: his hand wraps around Zevran's cock only. That's all wrong, and besides, it would be a shame to miss out on the noises he makes. Zevran needs a moment to remember how his hands work, but eventually he gets the right neurons to fire in the right order so he can reach down and stroke Alistair's cock.

The angle and the difference in their heights complicate that plan, forearms bumping and hands knocking into each other until they're laughing as much as kissing. It's easier to stop, to find the lube and then switch, for Zevran to jerk himself off while Alistair does the same, only their mouths touching now.

Mutual masturbation hasn't been new and fascinating to Zevran for more than two decades, and there's nothing special about what they're doing now. He could be doing this at home in his own bed, for fuck's sake. Absolutely nothing about it should have him shaking, hauling himself back from an orgasm that snuck up on him out of nowhere.

To distract himself, he breaks the kiss, nudging at Alistair's cheek until he turns his head enough for Zevran to murmur in his ear, "Is this the picture you want, then?"

"Huh?"

"Is this the picture you want?" Zevran asks patiently. "I promised you a new picture, to replace the one you deleted."

Alistair sucks in a breath as understanding hits him, and Zevran can practically feel his blush.

"Did you want a picture of me with my hand around my cock? Or perhaps a little video instead, just for you?" He kisses the skin in front of Alistair's ear, brushes his nose along the close-cut hair at his temple. "I would look at you the whole time, you know. Stare straight into the camera as I stroked myself for you, and you could watch it later, when I was elsewhere."

His mouth is running away with him, but he seems to have forgotten where the brake is. He doesn't try very hard to find it.

"Or maybe," Zevran says, drawing the words out, "I would fuck myself, knowing you would watch and imagine it was your cock inside me."

Alistair makes a pained noise, his hand moving faster.

Zevran puts his mouth right against Alistair's ear so he can breathe into it, "I want that. I want to know that whatever I do to myself, you would see it later and want to do it to me. I want to touch myself and think of you touching yourself."

Over the years, Zevran has sent more than his share of naked pictures of himself, ranging from dick-pics to carefully posed photos bordering on art. A few videos, too, and some of them a lot more shocking than anything he would describe to Alistair. He likes to be admired, likes knowing someone else is getting off on watching him, and that's as far as it goes.

The thought of Alistair doing it, though, is different. More. It's not arousing in a vague, abstract sort of way. It's hot enough to burn his skin, to move his hand faster, to squeeze his chest until he's breathing with Alistair in short, sharp gasps.

He forces his breathing back to something steadier, slows his hand because fuck it, he can do better than this, and presses another kiss to Alistair's ear. "I want to think of you with your hand around your cock, and I want-"

The kiss catches him by surprise, makes him laugh even as he returns it, Alistair's tongue sliding against his, exploring his mouth as if they've never done this before. Alistair's hand is moving fast, and he's groaning, small noises in between increasingly frantic kisses until he can't even manage that and all he can do is rest his forehead against Zevran's, eyes shut tight as he fucks his fist.

"Yes," Zevran whispers, "I want to watch you come, the way you'll watch me later."

"Oh Maker," Alistair gasps, "oh fuck, please, I want-"

But whatever he wants, he doesn't finish the sentence, his throat working silently as his head tips back and he comes, warm drops spattering Zevran's chest. Zevran drinks in the sight, lets it pull him over the edge, and even when he can't keep his eyes open, he can see it as clearly as he can feel Alistair shaking against him.

They're both still shaking when Alistair pulls him in close again, ignoring the mess between them. Someone unstrung every muscle and tendon in Zevran's body when he wasn't looking, and he has no interest in getting out of this nice warm bed, especially when he has a nice warm Alistair to keep it that way. Is it too early in the day for a nap to be a plausible excuse?

Probably, but when Alistair begins to make vague noises about getting up and getting breakfast, Zevran makes his counter-argument by snuggling closer, pressing his forehead to the center of Alistair's chest.

Alistair sighs out a soft laugh. "Can we at least get up long enough to clean off? We're gonna be...ummm...sticky pretty soon."

Left to his own devices, Zevran is usually fastidious, but he's also had plenty of experience ignoring that in favor of a mission. Right now, his mission is to keep Alistair in this bed as long as possible. The real world is starting to intrude, and once they get up, Zevran can't put off going home much longer. He has his own chores to do, after all. Or he will, once he gets out of bed.

"Zev?" Alistair's hand, warm and a little rough from callouses, rubs slowly over his back.

"Mm?"

"If I promise to come back, can I get up long enough to shower?"

For an answer, Zevran gropes around behind himself for a corner of the sheet and offers that to Alistair, who smiles. "I'm going to be doing more laundry today, aren't I?"

"Mm."

"You're hard on my sheets." Zevran can practically hear him blush in the pause that follows, but when Zevran doesn't say anything, Alistair asks, "Isn't this where you make some joke about other things being hard?"

Zevran leans back enough to give him a superior look. "I would never say anything so crass."

"Suuuure," Alistair says. "Sure you wouldn't."

"I find your disbelief to be insulting," Zevran says, pushing his forehead back into Alistair's chest. "Deeply insulting."

"Sure you do," Alistair says, but the words are softer, more wondering than teasing. "Sure you do."

"Mm-hm."

Alistair makes a valiant attempt at wiping them down with the sheet, and Zevran cooperates grudgingly, if only to get it done with faster. As soon as Alistair is finished, Zevran wraps arms and legs around him and tries to go back to sleep. He doesn't quite succeed, but he manages a nice doze, floating along in a warm haze with Alistair's arm a solid weight around his chest. As long as his eyes are closed, he can pretend time isn't passing.

Pretending doesn't stop it from happening, though, and eventually hunger pulls them out of bed and into the shower. And once he's awake, Zevran can't help but think about all the things he's ignored for the last two days. He has laundry and grocery shopping of his own to do, not to mention a ridiculous pile of mail to sort through on the off chance there's something important. Friends who'd like to see him in what will probably be only a short break before he's off to somewhere else.

Friends he'd like to see, who he knows he'll regret not seeing when he's gone again.

"You need to go, don't you?" Alistair says quietly.

Startled, Zevran looks over at him where he's sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed. "What makes you say that?"

"I dunno." Alistair looks down at his coffee. "Just...seemed like what you were thinking."

It's weird to have anyone read him even that much. Weird, and not something Zevran is really comfortable with. He thinks he might like to get comfortable with it, though.

"I do need to go soon," he admits. He's just finished his own coffee, and if he's going to leave, now is as good a time as any.

"We could...do something, later?"

Zevran considers his to-do list and makes himself shake his head. "Not today, I think." Before Alistair can take that the wrong way, Zevran adds, "But tomorrow, perhaps?"

"I could buy you dinner," Alistair says, gaining confidence. "I know a place that does great sushi." He makes a face. "If you like sushi. Which I know some people don't. Which is fine. Fine if you don't like it, I mean. Or if you do. Um."

So much for confident. Zevran leans over to kiss him. "Send me the address for your place that does great sushi," he says, very serious. Then he grins. "I believe you already have my number."

###

It takes him a little longer to extricate himself--mostly because he doesn't really want to--but eventually the excuses get so weak it's impossible to pretend they're actual reasons.

As a consolation, he texts a few friends on the ride home, setting up lunch with one, coffee with another, a date to see the latest ridiculous action movie with a third. That will be fun, and even more fun will be the hours spent mocking its inevitable inaccuracies.

Then he has nothing to do for the rest of the ride but debate with himself. There's a fourth friend he could call. Wants to call. Even with nothing more to go on than an old phone number and the first part of a name, she'd have an address for him before he got home. She'd have an entire file in less than six hours. In twenty-four, Zevran could know more about Alistair's ex than Alistair does.

He tells himself he's not calling her now because he's in public, that it's a conversation he should have in private. He tells himself that all the way home, until he's standing in his apartment with his phone in his hand.

Alistair would never know. Zevran has kept bigger secrets, and he knows how to be patient. If he struck now, it would be obvious, but a year from now? Last night's conversation will be long forgotten by then, and with a little careful planning, Zevran can even have a perfect alibi, one that could stand up to any prodding Alistair might do.

Or he could be more subtle: he knows plenty of ways to hurt someone that aren't the least bit physical. As an added bonus, all of those ways are a lot less attention-grabbing than killing someone, making it even easier to keep Alistair in the dark.

Or he could stop pretending he's going to do anything except what Alistair asked.

Instead of making that phone call, he leaves his phone on the bathroom counter while he takes another shower. Not a long one, just enough so his hair is slicked back from his face and water is dripping down his chest when he takes a picture of himself in the mirror. The bathroom counter once again cuts off the picture before it becomes X-rated, except that Zevran's hand is obviously on his cock, even if the picture doesn't show it. He gives the camera his best smirk and takes a dozen shots until he gets the perfect one to send to Alistair.

He waits, more anxious than he's used to being over something like this, until Alistair texts him back with a shocked emoji, followed after a couple seconds by, _Tomorrow?_

 _Tomorrow,_ he texts back, smiling, before he turns off his phone and gets to work.


End file.
